ROAD RAGE
by Betz88
Summary: It is 2009. After "Birthmarks". Wilson drags House to Lexington to visit his mother and get some things straightened out about his past. But House is deep into his Leg Pain-Vicodin-booze addiction and things are not going well. House and Wilson are drawn in, and both begin to see some things a little differently. Things they didn't see coming, but should have. Now what?
1. Chapter 1

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 1

"Chains"

221B Baker Street

Princeton, New Jersey

January

2009

He awakened with a jolt.

Shadows in stark definition drifting smoky trails toward the opposite wall, told him clouds were blowing across the moon and the weather was turning colder.He could always tell. He laid there, eyes closed, jaw set as the first shot of morning pain jabbed upward into his spine.

It was not going to be a good day. All-night bouts of hit-and-miss wakefulness were never a good sign.

The left side of his face and upper arm were burrowed in the pillow's depths. His right eye slitted open and he hoped it was still the middle of the night. It wasn't. Crap! His eyelashes parted just enough to create a fringe of perception through which he could make out the silent approach of daybreak. The clock's luminous display read: 7:03.

The joys of northeastern winters: you went to work in the dark and you came home in the dark.

He was tangled in bed covers so he must have tried to run some kind of marathon in his sleep. He remembered a feeling of tightness the evening before that should have warned him the weather was changing and it was going to snow. His leg was about to go into spasm.

He'd fortified himself with Vicodin and Scotch before retiring last night. That wasn't unusual, but after the passing of nighttime hours, it was worn off completely. He was trapped under a heap of sheets and blankets with no easy means of escape.

Even during intervals when his usual meds gave him relief, the return to pain always caught him off guard. When the burn slammed back to interrupt his sleep, it still came as a shock to his system. The slightest movement of his leg exacted extra effort, even after all this time. _Especially_ after all this time.

He was wide-awake now and if he had indeed slept, it certainly didn't feel like it. He was nervous and twitchy and strung out. Was it the top sheet wrapped around his legs that added to the bite? Knotted bedclothes lay in hills and valleys around him, and the other bed pillow was shoved halfway under the rise of his hip. He must've run a hundred miles in his sleep.

He listened to the room's mood, familiar as his own heartbeat. Something was hitting against the windowpanes. Was it raining, for chrissake? In January? In New Jersey?

_Oh shit! _

He thrust his right side slowly upward while strong fingers grasped the cratered muscle between hip and knee. Another night had passed, filled with wakefulness and useless efforts to return to sleep. A decent night's rest for Gregory House never came easy.

He gasped, struggling to keep from letting the sound out; refusing to allow his pain to force an outcry. Shrieking in agony was not in his makeup. He'd screamed like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum when he came out of the anesthetic at the time of the infarction. He'd been mortified when he realized that that shriek had come out of _him_. Never again! Not even in his own bedroom in this most private of all inner sanctums would he allow the pain to have a voice. Even after so long, isolation and denial remained his closest companions.

He pushed stiffly to a sitting position, still gasping, propping himself on his left arm while the fingers of his right hand endeavored to pull out the pain by the roots. He sat still for a few seconds, gathering resources, combating a momentary spate of dizziness. Carefully he disentangled the rope-like snarl of sheets and let his legs lay free.

The Vicodin bottle was out of reach on the opposite end of the nightstand. He knew he must now force himself to walk off the misery. Another major inconvenience.

His bladder was uncomfortably full and its urgency propelled himto step on it.

Figuratively speaking.

His cane lay hooked over the footboard where he could reach out and draw it toward him. That walking stick was as necessary to his existence as a drive shaft to a pickup truck. He seized its sturdy handle and curled his fingers around its crook with angry dependence.

_Get up, old man! Get your sorry ass to the head before you hose down the whole bedroom!_

The entrance to his bathroom was only ten feet away, but in the morning he measured the distance in miles. When he'd told Foreman a few years back that the anticipation of pain was sometimes worse than the pain itself, he'd been speaking from experience. In spite of the urgency, he still hesitated at the prospect of levering himself upward. Drops of rain noisily splattering the windowpanes upped his need to hurry.

_Dammit! _

He jammed the cane to the floor and thrust himself to his feet quickly, taking full weight on the left, letting the right leg unfold and follow. His truncated thigh muscle twitched and the damaged nerve endings drove sparks into his knee. But he was up, and the pain was less than the anticipation. He paused, adjusting his weight while the ripples slowly subsided.

He stemmed his bladder's insistence with effort and stumbled to the bathroom. He seated himself on the hopper and aimed his stream between his legs into the bowl. He sighed, letting go finally, staring at the snarled bed clothing through the open door as his urine sprayed into the small pocket of water below.

Rain water into the storm drain …

He needed to go back to bed. The hell with work.

Memories of Two Funerals:

Dr. James Wilson, Head of Oncology, sat behind the big desk in his old familiar office, gazing absently through the rain to the rooftops of buildings across the street. Regrets, stemming from recent history, swam in his vision like leftover leaves in the rainstorm, intertwining with thoughts of the things he needed to accomplish _today. _He was uncertain at the moment which scenario was winning …

The death of Amber Volakis had been the straw that finally broke the back of a very

old and uncanny friendship. House, drunk as a skunk, had called Amber's land line from a bar, seeking Wilson and needing a ride home. Who better to provide it than good old faithful Wilson. But Wilson had been called in to work and could not respond. So Amber went to the bar in his place. She dragged House's sorry besotted ass onto a bus because the bartender would not release House's keys.

T-boned by a garbage truck in the wee hours, the bus was smashed to Kingdom Come with House and Amber both inside. For House, the lights went out. He regained consciousness, but not all of his memory.

House consented to deep brain stimulation in order to discover that which he could not recall of the accident, and where Amber might have been taken, for she had disappeared. When she was finally found, she was already dying.

And House lay barely conscious in a hospital bed, looking out from a narcotic-induced haze, wondering how he had gotten there. Why was his best friend standing outside the room gazing in at him with such an empty look on his face?

After the funeral James had walked away from this once-rewarding career with dark thoughts of despair, confusion and anger. He'd withdrawn into a shell from which he sometimes wondered if he could ever emerge. He was playing the blame game and he knew it, but he couldn't help himself. He could no longer stand the sight of Gregory House.

Wilson packed his personal belongings, walked away from Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital and his once-rewarding career and holed up at Amber's place. Hibernating there, he raised a beard that would have put Paul Bunyan to shame, and a body odor that followed him around the apartment like a hungry puppy. Day after unhappy day he mourned her loss and indulged himself with booze and Chinese takeout and resentful thoughts of his one-time best friend.

Some of his former colleagues visited. Each in their own preference touched him gently or made concerned eye contact, offering support and condolence.

He had shaken his head "no" when each pleaded with him to clean himself up and come back to PPTH where he belonged.

House had come by also. Without the touching. Or the eye contact. Only the sorrow and silence of a regret he could not express in words.

The last person in the world Wilson had wanted to see was House. He'd closed the door in House's face and said that if he returned again, Wilson would not even answer the door.

Now he wondered how he could possibly have been so callous as to place all the responsibility for Amber's death on this socially stunted, very old friend.

He guessed it was easy … if you were hurting badly enough in your heart.

He retreated further from their "stupid, screwed-up friendship" and left a physically and spiritually crippled man to fend for himself in confused and utter isolation.

"We're not friends anymore, House. I'm not sure we ever were …"

In his grief Wilson could not appreciate that House had put his own life on the line in an attempt to grant his friend's request: bring forth information which was still hidden deeply in his injured brain. House had undergone the deep brain stimulation reluctantly, revealing the puzzle of Amber's fate. In essence, he returned her to the man she loved so she would not have to die alone.

Wilson was not moved by House's sacrifice. Not then. Not later. He turned off Amber's life support machinery and lay beside her in sorrow as she slipped quietly away from him forever. Later, he'd stood drained of emotion outside the ICU where House languished in a twilight state, barely aware.

James looked in at the silent, forlorn figure, silently guarded by the one woman who could not help but love him. House looked back at Wilson with questions in his tired eyes; a silent stranger, suddenly old and alone. He had given up everything he had left to give. Wilson did not know then that House was not even aware of the woman at his side.

After a few silent moments in which he could think of nothing to do or say, Wilson turned and walked back down the hallway. His footfalls faded in the distance.

Gregory House looked after his friend's receding back in abject bewilderment.

At first Wilson's bitterness and sorrow had nearly strangled him. He locked House out

of the apartment and out of his life. He brooded. He walked around like a zombie in

an old bathrobe. Listlessly he filled out a few resumes and even accepted a job interview

in a city far away from Princeton, New Jersey. He made himself ready to leave forever.

Colonel John House changed everything by conveniently dying.

Lisa Cuddy called Wilson's cell phone, pleading.

House had refused to go to his father's funeral, she said. "Please, James … you're the only one who can help. He needs to go home!"

As always, Wilson consented to go where he was needed.

House needed him.

Truth be told, he needed House as well.

Wilson did not defy fate. He returned reluctantly to the only place where he'd ever really belonged. At Lisa Cuddy's urging, he drove a bottled hurricane named Gregory House to his father's funeral in Lexington, Kentucky.

Wilson sat like a rock by House's side at the viewing. He stood with a supporting hand on House's shoulder after House apparently choked up in the middle of his father's eulogy. He followed House to his father's coffin and discovered House's ulterior motive of collecting a fingernail clipper full of DNA.

Wilson walked out of the room behind House and entered an adjoining room where they could argue in private. James was so angry and frustrated that he threw a full bottle of wine through a stained glass window.

History repeating itself …

Somehow in the process, House came alive again, right before his eyes.

So did Wilson.

So did their friendship.

Wilson's former office had been recarpeted, repainted. He returned with his personal mementoes, his souvenirs and posters, his Teddy bears and trophies. He rearranged the books in the bookcase; his framed diplomas rehung on the wall. His movie posters were returned to their former positions. His professional world regrew again from the seeds of an empty office. All his boxes of patients' files were finding their places back in his file cabinet. He bought potted plants to brighten things up a little.

His desk lamp was the only light on in the room: one dim circle of illumination in acres of darkness. He sat in the early morning gloom with a stack of hard copy case files scattered across the desk in front of him. He'd never turned his caseload over to other oncologists as he should have done before he left; simply threw them into cartons. Now

he had to sort through everything and put it all back in order.

The day he and Dr. Cuddy conspired to drug Gregory House and drag him, angry and unresponsive, to the funeral home in Lexington, Kentucky, the experience had opened Wilson's eyes in more ways than one. His old friend was suffering too. House pretended he didn't give a shit about anything, but he was still badly wounded by life itself and the deaths of his dad and Amber.

House was capable of experiencing grief. His grief was the deep, grinding, regretful kind. He just wasn't quite capable of expressing himself in a manner that Wilson could readily understand while still trying to deal with his own.

Wilson had had to pause and think about that at length. His irate road companion on the trip to Kentucky was certainly not shy when it came to bitching and whining to get what he wanted. He was, however, a social misfit who had no clue about discussing feelings. He had them. He just didn't know what the hell to do with them. So he stuffed them.

They always reemerged, usually as physical pain. House would not discuss that either.

"_I'm fine!"_

Stalemate after stalemate.

John House's funeral had affected Wilson too. Not in a good way.

The healing wasn't over. It was just beginning.

Wilson sighed, fiddling with a pen from the mess on his desk. He still couldn't find anything, and it didn't look like it would get better anytime soon.

He wrenched his thoughts out of the recent past and back to the here-and-now with an abrupt mental squaring of his shoulders. The hand that held the pen had been making jabbing motions onto the paper below, and the corner of the page was peppered with tiny pits of blue ink.

However recovered he thought he might have been up until this moment, part of his mind still lay embroiled in past events. He dropped the pen onto the blotter and then threaded his fingers helplessly backward through freshly shorn auburn hair.

A quiet tap on his office door brought him quickly to attention, and he dropped his hands quickly to the surface of the desk. He picked up the pen and gripped it with fingers of steel …

"Come in."

The office door came open by degrees, and a dark coiffed head poked its way inquiringly around the opening. The rest of a slender female body followed in turn, and Dr. Lisa Cuddy walked quietly into the office. She turned, giving him time to collect himself by closing the door in a soft, intent manner. She approached the desk.

"Good morning, Dr. Wilson. I saw you moving around in here … you're early …"

"So are you. Come all the way up here to check on me?" He asked.

"Yeah, you could say that."

They paused, looking at one another questioningly for a five-second interlude. The silence stretched into awkwardness. They both spoke at once.

"I'm glad to have you back, James …"

He deflected. "I still can't find half the stuff I need …"

The resulting smiles were self-conscious. Cuddy was a little hesitant to take the non-conversation forward and perhaps strike a nerve in the still-grieving Wilson. "You look tired, Dr. Wilson. Things will get better. Don't push too hard."

"Why would you think I'd do that?"

She shrugged and swept a hand above the mess that surrounded him. "Because that's the way you operate. Your desk looks as though you're waging war across it … trying to do too many things at once."

He breathed a tiny puff of amusement through his nose. "And you're telling me that … because?"

"Because you're holding that pen like a sword."

"The pen has _always_ been mightier than the sword."

"James …" There was exasperation in her tone.

He shrugged. "Sorry. I'm just trying to stay ahead of the memories. There are some things that come back to haunt me, no matter what I do to get beyond them. The only thing that seems to be working in my favor is the fact that House has been a bit subdued since we returned from the colonel's funeral …"

Cuddy stepped closer to the desk and lowered herself briefly onto the only chair not piled with file folders. "Well, look at it this way;" she said with a twinkle in her eyes, "he's probably just backing up for a fresh start."

Wilson wrinkled his nose a bit. "Just what I needed to hear. Thanks a lot for the encouragement."

Cuddy laughed softly. "Well, I just wanted to stop by and let you know that this place is very happy to have you back where you belong. All of us are. Even House. _Especially_ House …"

He watched her rise and turn to leave his office. It was nice to be appreciated …

"Thank you …" he called after her.

Time was passing quickly, James thought, rubbing absently at a twinge of pain beginning to bite at his temple.

Outside it was raining, for God's sake … in the middle of winter. The drops were big; bursting against the glass like small water balloons. He frowned. He was sure it had been below freezing when he'd arrived at his office. The temperature must have gone up since then. Damn global warming! Damn crazy weather. One would think it was April, not January.

He shrugged.

_Accept the things you can't change … _

He hauled out his middle desk drawer and withdrew a bottle of aspirin. The headache was gaining momentum now, and the goofy monsoonish weather was playing hell with his sinuses. Time to corral the monster. He took two of them dry as he had seen House do. The taste was strong and bitter.

Since the deaths of The Colonel and Amber, his friendship with House had pretty much settled into its old pattern of miniature crises and minor skirmishes. They'd both lived through it without killing each other, though sometimes not by much.

Wilson leaned back in his chair, relaxing backward to allow the headache to fade gradually away. He stared out the window at the dull grey sky and let his mind go blank.

221B BAKER STREET, PRINCETON:

It was nearly 10:00 a.m. Where had the time gone? He had walked it away, that's where.

Gregory House made it to the couch. Propped the cane against the arm. He was tired and edgy. He threaded his fingers through tangled hair that lay across his head like a peppery haystack. His beard felt like barbed wire curled around the lower half of his face. Baggy scrubs hung off his skinny ass, and the tail of his tee shirt lay puddled about his middle like a wrung-out dishrag. He was too tired to care, and the burn in the wasted muscle was not going away.

He encircled his angry right leg and positioned it across the coffee table. His right hand worried at his thigh as though it had nothing better to do. The area of the scar was hard as rock. His pain was mounting again and he was running out of options.

A fresh supply of morphine was stashed atop the bookcase.

He'd paced the length of the apartment until the soles of his feet stung. The callus on the heel of his right hand began to burn, and his shoulder was screaming. He'd had enough of pain. Enough of the stiff upper lip. Enough of everything.

He stared at the bookcase, despising the need to resort to desperate measures again, but it was time. He placed his foot back on the floor and ratcheted himself up from the couch. The stepstool was in the pantry beside the refrigerator, and he yanked it out with barely controlled rage.

After he climbed up there, threw down the cane, grasped the box and pulled it toward him, he felt for purchase with his other hand and curled his toes over the top step of the stool. He stood motionless for a moment, acclimating himself to his position.

His balance fled as the stepstool tilted sharply away from the lesser amount of weight he could place on his right side. The morphine box flew through the air and the stepstool slammed to the floor in the opposite direction. House crashed across from it in an awkward heap.

He landed flat on his ass, on the tip of the cane he'd tossed down earlier. In spite of everything he might have done to bite it back, a yelp of pain escaped him and morphed into a howl of agony.

He struggled to roll over and away from the sharp pain that dug at his hip bone and raced in angry echoes into the center of his back, down his leg and into his foot. He managed to rise about halfway, but the strength he might have called upon when he was a healthy man was not there now.

The rubber tip of the cane dug into his hip bone, producing another piercing stab of torture. House, however, mercifully passed out before his keening could be heard echoing through the whole apartment.

10


	2. Chapter 3

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 3

"Accu-Weather"

January 9, 2009

10:00 a.m.

Strong winds buffeted sheets of rain and sleet across the balcony and against the outside door. When he heard the rattle of glass against metal, James Wilson paid closer attention to the elements. He sighed and stood up from his desk chair. The file he'd been working on was updated at last, and he needed to get ready for rounds. He straightened, standing motionless, peering out the window. It was like a wall of water and ice out there.

The tops of windblown trees across from the hospital whipped around like drunken sailors. Leaves that hadn't been lost to winter's shedding now hung from branches trying desperately to shake them loose. In the distance beyond the edge of town, forks of lightening split the sky and outlined dark clouds with luminous bands of silver. If the temperature were ten degrees lower, it would be a blizzard. So much for rain in January.

_I think I need to get out of here and check to see what's happening downstairs. House was probably right not to come to work today._

"God, I could use a cup of coffee," Wilson murmured aloud.

Food. Human contact. In that order. He had skipped breakfast this morning, and he realized he was ravenous. A chicken salad sandwich on a bed of lettuce the way they made them in the cafeteria would certainly hit the spot. _IF_ the refrigeration was up and running. The short walk from elevator to cafeteria would loosen his tired shoulder and calf muscles and relieve the tension along his spine.

James glanced around his office. Everything looked fairly professional again. There were still a few things that needed tweaking before he could call it "good". The potted plants he had placed in strategic locations around the room looked a little droopy. He guessed he should water them.

A mind picture formed of House joyfully zippering down and "watering" each plant in turn. Wilson pulled a face and wondered briefly about his own sanity. He certainly hoped his friend had finally matured past the impulse to pull that kind of lunacy.

_Really!_

Later this afternoon James must concentrate on sorting the rest of his active files. Then he would boot up his laptop and hope it would last the rest of the day on battery power.

Wilson sighed again, determinedly shifting his thoughts back to the idea of structured routine. He had become lethargic during the time of his long preoccupation with the death of Amber. He'd been aimless; existing without purpose, too immersed in his ennui to notice goings on around him. It was time for this to stop. He was, after all, moving into a new phase of his life. He wondered whether House would follow. Probably not. He was determined to keep the other man at arm's length until House got it through his thick skull that Wilson was no longer willing to be a doormat.

Perhaps, Wilson thought, he should gather his own resources and change his bland concept of tough love where House was concerned. The 'control' he'd been overusing on House before they'd washed their hands of one another hadn't worked worth a damn. It was better since he'd come back to PPTH, but he sometimes wondered how long it could last.

Wilson brought his thoughts back to the present yet again and glanced out the window. It seemed as though Mother Nature was using an icy pressure washer on the whole town. He could almost feel the sway of rain and sleet buffeting the hospital, trying to throw him … and it … off balance. Here he stood, worrying about things he had no control over and lamenting his personal inconveniences. His thoughts returned to the rumbling of his empty stomach.

James rolled down his sleeves and lifted his lab coat off the coat rack. He drew it on and checked the pockets for his wallet, pager and cell phone. They were still in place where he'd put them this morning, of course. His keys were in his sport jacket, but he wouldn't need those. He closed the office door behind him and rattled the knob in a quick security check. He was into the corridor and walking away when he heard the muffled ring of the office landline. He shrugged it off and kept going.

Cuddy …

He'd talk to her when he arrived downstairs. Now it was time for coffee and a sandwich. Then … rounds.

Noon:

Gregory ouseHouseHouse House awakened in a fog of dysphoria, disorientation and fatigue. The inside of his mouth felt like it was stuffed with flannel. His head pounded.

Pain nagged at his leg, although not the harsh intensity that had sent him on a quest for more drastic measures earlier. For a few moments he thought he was still sprawled on the living room floor.

He squinted his eyes open for the second time that day and took in what he could see of his surroundings without having to move. His limbs were mushy and his left arm was numb. His hip throbbed as though something mighty and very much alive was drumming through from the other side of his skin.

He was in his own bed.

_Thank you God. Or Whoever._

Blankets were bunched beneath him; almost like he'd been thrown into a field of old tires. He could reach the Vicodin vial if he needed to, but he was half afraid to stretch that far.

How long had he been out? The morphine had all but worn off, so it must have been a few hours. The alarm clock was in the other direction from the way he was turned.

It was still raining … still hammering against the windows: phantom fists pounding against his skull. Maybe something more than rain. The sound of it wasn't quite right; more muted and sneaky. He was queasy in his gut, but he knew it was one of the side effects of morphine. It would probably get worse before it got better.

He licked his parched lips with a dry tongue.

Christ!

Carefully he rolled his shoulders until he could free his arm from the Sherman tank that had been parked on it, and was instantly greeted with a scratchy tingle that made him grit his teeth. He rotated his wrist and flexed his fingers until sensation began to creep back. He smoothed out the worst of the lumps beneath his upper body.

House's stomach growled and he felt the metallic threat of nausea at the back of his throat. He had not eaten solid food since lunchtime yesterday. His leg had begun to tighten on his way home from work. He'd experienced the first twinges while still in

the car.

Work …

He hadn't gone to work this morning. Hadn't called in. They probably thought he was playing hooky because of the weather. Little thing like that.

Why hadn't anyone called? No one had bothered him. No one had given him hell, or even checked to see if he was all right. Not that he could blame them …

Not the kids.

Not Cuddy.

Not even Wilson?

He moved his hand along his side, slowly downward until it gently cupped the scar.

Without even realizing it, his fingertips caressed the sensitive area of missing muscle, soothing it like a fretful child.

He finally fell asleep again … eternally exhausted.

12:25 p.m.

Lisa Cuddy left the phone ring at House's place.

And ring.

She finally hung up and pressed the button for Wilson's office.

It rang.

And rang.

She hung up and stood with head down, chin almost to her chest. Then she walked across to her coat rack and grabbed her coat. Pulled on her heavy yarn hat. Toed out of the racy heels and stepped into her running shoes. She tied the belt tightly and knotted the hat's ties beneath her chin. She grabbed her leather handbag from where it hung beneath her coat. Zipped its zippers. Reached into a pocket to be sure her car keys and cell phone were there. Grabbed an umbrella from the rack.

Cuddy walked out of her office, across the length of lobby, muttering "lunch" to the receptionist, whose jaw dropped in disbelief. Cuddy marched with umbrella held low, out the main entrance into a full-fledged winter storm. Was she totally nuts?

It was 12:30 p.m.

James Wilson pushed open the stairway door and walked across the lobby toward Lisa Cuddy's office. He knew she had been the caller on the phone when he left for his sandwich break, and he supposed she had wanted to gripe to him about House's excuse for not coming to work.

"My leg …" Always about the leg.

Cuddy was not there. Her office was empty and her coat was gone.

Wilson walked a few steps further, all accumulated thoughts down the toilet. Maybe she was going out for lunch and had been calling to invite him along.

Hell no! Who in their right mind went out to lunch in weather like this to fight traffic on snowy streets … in a town that had been hit with a power outage … and this hospital, her beloved baby … was running on auxiliary power … ?

Wilson stood at the doors of the main entrance and gazed into the fog and the wind and the driving sleet and snow. Cuddy didn't have all her marbles going out in this mess.

At the near side of the parking lot, a dark Lexus sedan with its lights on high beam and wipers flapping furiously, pulled out into the gale and made a sharp right turn.

It was Lisa's car, heading in the direction of House's apartment.

Now what?

Berating himself for a fool, Wilson turned on his heel and ran for the exit to the underground parking garage. At least he wouldn't have to scrape snow off his car

But no! His overcoat, jacket and car keys were still upstairs in his office.

He ran instead for the elevator out of pure habit, and hit the button for the fourth floor.

Nothing happened.

Power outage. Right. Nothing works except emergency systems.

He took the stairs running.

What the hell was it about House that turned both their brains to jelly every time?

By the time he made it to his car and followed his boss, fifteen minutes had already passed.

That bastard had better not be propped on his couch under a blanket with a can of beer

in his hand. He'd better not be fooling with the damned Game Boy and ignoring his phones, his grin growing wider every time one of them rang …

Oh yes he would!

If so, Wilson was going to help Lisa Cuddy put his damned head on a stick.

Wilson unlocked the Volvo and jammed the key into the ignition.

The squeal of tires on dry concrete alerted at least four people to the speed with which Wilson slammed out of the parking garage and into a New Jersey Nor'easter …

23


	3. Chapter 2

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #2

"Storms"

A/N: Since I forgot to say anything to readers before posting the first chapter of this missive, I shall say something now:

It's been awhile. Four years. RR has taken that long, and that's why I don't try to write professionally. I hope some of you remember me, but it's okay if you don't, 'cause I still keep showing up out of the blue like horse crap after a parade.

I wrote myself into a corner two or three times while searching for a way to dig myself out of some plot hole or another. So, if you're going to continue with this, please buckle up for a long, bumpy ride, while House and Wilson, and of course, Blythe … try to dig themselves out of _their _plotholes!

It goes without saying that I write about House & Co. with admiration and respect to their creator, David Shore. Not a single soul in this story actually belongs to me, because even my OCs wouldn't exist if David hadn't been there first.

I am still mourning the demise of House, the TV show, and Monday nights will never be the same. But like those of us who can't let it alone, I keep him alive in my mind and my heart by writing (and reading) new adventures and continuing to speculate about where Gregory House and James Wilson might go from here.

And so … I dedicate this story to all the readers, like me, who can't let it alone either …

Thanks,

Betz88

January 2009

8:30 a.m.

All along Nassau Street in Princeton, New Jersey, streetlights were blinking off as daylight advanced. They were on light sensors rather than a timer this early in the new year, and the encroaching dawn shut them down like a long line of dominoes falling one by one. Sometimes it seemed the city was a living entity that took a perverse delight in defying the laws of physics, gravity … logic.

A fierce storm had picked up since first light. Shortly after that, billowing sheets of rain developed. Gusts of wind whipped hanging quad traffic lights on most corners of the business district and sent them twisting and screeching on steel turnbuckles that held them in place above the pavement.

Traffic was heavy at 8:30 a.m. Commuters from outlying areas left their homes early to battle their way through the rain to arrive at their desks by nine. Vehicles lumbered through water that ran in gutters already two inches deep. Tires threw miniature tidal waves across sidewalks and onto pedestrians brave enough to be walking. Then the temperature turned colder and flakes of heavy wet snow began to intermingle with the rain.

James Wilson took a break from cataloguing case files. It was soon time for morning rounds. His headache had given up to the power of the Aspirin, and he stood behind his balcony door gazing out at the deluge. Cold water, now mixed with fat snowflakes, whipped across the concrete surface and blew the wooden deck chairs like dollhouse furniture against the brick retaining wall.

Across the expanse of balcony he saw lights come on in the DDX room that adjoined Gregory House's office. He could see indistinct figures of Hadley and Kutner as they walked in together, laughing, brushing winter's handiwork off their coats and hats. A minute later Chris Taub joined them; a saturated umbrella hooked over one arm, shaking himself like a doused puppy. He doffed his coat and umbrella and went directly to the coffee maker. Thirty seconds later the pot was steaming.

House's personal office, however, remained dark.

Wilson chuffed softly through his nose. No surprise there. Lousy weather was the perfect excuse for House to take one look at blowing rain and snow from behind parted draperies and quickly crawl back between the sheets. Bad weather played hell with House's bum leg, or so he said. Why would this particular day be any different?

Sometimes, Wilson reflected with a grunt, he expected too much of House. House was House. James turned away from the door and went back to his office mess. He glanced at his watch and then pulled another case file from the stack. He opened it onto the cluttered desktop.

Lisa Cuddy sat in her office and stared into space. Her chin rested in the palm of one manicured hand while she rolled a fancy sequined lipstick tube between the fingers of the other. At 8:45 a.m. Eric Foreman had walked past her office dripping water and snow from his long black overcoat. He looked in and waved to her. She nodded, smiled and waved back.

She'd been sitting in the same spot for an hour, first working on a financial report from Maintenance, outlining a desperate need for replacement trunk wiring and new electrical cable. Nuts, bolts, nails, screws … neverending. Nothing these days came cheap, and she had counted the row of zeroes without much surprise.

A requisition from Housekeeping included a long list of renewable cleaning supplies. The sheer weight of numbers was enough to stagger the imagination. It took a lot of resources to run a hospital the size of this one.

Cuddy read over both lists and entered them into inventory. She put the lipstick down and affixed her signature to both requisitions. She typed the authorizations and code numbers into the log, hit '_Enter'_ and went back to twirling the lipstick and leaning her chin in her hand.

Other employees reporting late for work through the main entrance this morning were wet and windblown. The hands of the clock had moved to a few minutes past 9:00 a.m. and it was still dark and glaring. It was hard to make out more than hazy outlines just a few feet beyond the front doors.

Electrical service suddenly went offline with a loud sizzle of overloaded connections. The hospital darkened immediately: a pop, a snap of breakers, and the building's vast interior took on the appearance of midnight. The only illumination remaining was the spectral glare of blurred daylight stealing through the front doors and the front windows, and emergency lights over the lobby doors.

Cuddy froze in anticipation: "Come oonnn you guys! Let there be light!"

Backup generators came online after a short interval of absolute silence. She could hear

the heady rumble and growl as they kicked in. After a few moments she was reassured by the deep hum of steady vibration through her shoe soles. Emergency lighting winked out and auxiliary power took over in office after office until it had spread throughout the ground floor.

Suddenly her telephone was ringing off the hook. And then it went silent. She turned

the desk phone over and flipped a switch on the bottom. Then it was ringing again. She dropped the lipstick back to the surface of the desk and spun around; picked up the receiver and said: "I'm on it!" And hung up again. Most maintenance personnel would be earning considerable overtime pay before this day was over. So was her considerable pool of physicians and nursing staff.

Speaking of physicians, where the hell was House? He should have been here by this time. Was he thinking he could beg off because of a little foul weather?

No way!

House's teeth were clenched tight, bent elbow thrown across his face when his senses opened up again with new pain, telling him he had just landed in deep shit.

The fall had knocked the breath out of him. He laid flat on his back, except for his right hipbone, which had hit the tip of the cane on an angle. It was fortunate he hadn't pulled the heavy bookcase over on top of himself.

From the corner of his eye he could see the outline of the overturned stepstool. After a time he turned his head to the left and got his bearings. He was suddenly dizzy and the entire room spun out flat around him.

Wilson wasn't going to be happy about this. They had reached an impasse the last couple of months and House hadn't wanted to rock the boat. He knew he was hurt, not sure how badly. Would Wilson be angered because he had once again resorted to the use of morphine? Or would he be accused of goldbricking because God was drowning the world again? House wasn't sure. He just knew that he saw red when he was accused of faking … but his bum leg was shouting agony beyond all reason.

Overhead the bookcase towered like a monolith about to come crashing down, but it was an illusion created by the fact that he was looking straight up the front of it. Each shelf loomed above him like a boulder hanging off a cliff. The ceiling, in another trick of skewered proportion, seemed to sag down from above. He blinked, experiencing a sudden surge of vertigo and the discomfort of a lump beginning to rise at the back of his skull.

On the floor near his left elbow, contents of the morphine stash lay scattered. Ampoules containing the clear drops of liquid heaven, however, were still intact. He took a deep breath and forced his body to go limp.

His hip, where it still rested on the cane tip, hurt like hell. His leg burned greedily. He grunted and hitched a little to the left ….

How freaking stupid can one person be?

His bad leg slid around slowly as he turned onto his left side. Temporary respite.

The throbbing came back. He could not remain sprawled on the floor. Somehow he must get up. Would he experience another attack of vertigo and pass out where he lay?

He closed his eyes, groping for the scattered contents of the morphine kit, preparing to get himself across to the couch.

At that precise instant a bolt of lightning hit very close to the outside wall, and sizzled his electrical service like bacon frying in a pan. Right behind it a clap of thunder shook the floor beneath him and vibrated the entire structure to its foundation. He held his breath. Then his apartment went dark as a cave.

There was a slight whiff of ozone.

_Jesus!_

That one had been a dandy.

It was raging outside like the hammers of hell. The bottoms of the drapes at his windows were swaying gently from the fingers of wind that stole through tiny cracks around the sashes of the old building.

House managed to scrape across the floor on his ass after closing a fist around one thin morphine ampoule, rubber tourniquet, and a syringe. He dropped his cache onto the coffee table and pulled himself onto the couch.

He yanked down the scrub pants and checked the spot on his hipbone. A bruise was already darkening his skin in the bizarre orange glow from the windows. He was damned lucky it … and the whack on the head … seemed to be his only injuries.

Fuck!

In the dimness of power failure and driving storm, he hiked his pants up again and tied off the length of rubber around his bicep. He injected the potent drug directly into the vein. Three minutes later he was sweating and gasping. The room was fading in and out, but the pain was fading too.

Nobody at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital had any business being around him today, he decided. Maybe not tomorrow either.

He needed sleep more than harassment …. or God forbid … sympathy.

House dragged himself haltingly back to his bedroom and dropped his wiry body across the tangled covers. The skin of his right thigh rippled with diminishing spasms beneath the scar where bulky quad muscles had once resided. Thirty seconds later he was out like a light.

The battle outside his home raged on.

The muscle spasms quieted.

He slept.

Dr. Cuddy picked up her phone and hit the direct-call button that connected her to Wilson's office.

The oncologist answered on the second ring.

"Dr. Wilson …"

"It's me," Cuddy said. "Have you seen House yet today?"

There was a pause. "No. Is the power out all over the hospital? I just put my phone on auxiliary. Isn't he here?"

"We're running on backup generators. I've cancelled all surgeries except emergencies for today. Where the hell is House?"

Wilson held his silence. Obviously she didn't expect an answer. Cuddy was deep into decision making.

His dark eyes lifted across the rain-soaked balcony and into the office of the Director of the Department of Diagnostics. Kutner sat in the adjacent room at the glass-topped table with a clipboard and coffee cup in front of him. He was having a conversation with Foreman. Taub and Hadley were in House's office staring hard at an MRI that wasn't showing up very well on the dimmed-down light board.

Auxiliary lights were on, but House was not present. Wilson wondered why Cuddy had chosen to call him instead of ringing up the Fellows …

He was about to hang up the phone when Cuddy spoke again. "There's no way he could have come into the lobby without me seeing him … unless he sneaked around and up through Maintenance, then across to the rear elevators."

There was another pause. "What do you want me to do?" Wilson asked with a sigh.

She could hear the impatience in his voice. There were still marbles in the cook pots of Paradise.

Cuddy sighed audibly. "Nothing. I'll call him at home. If he's stalling because of a damn storm, I'll have his head on a stick."

Wilson chuckled. Too much store, he thought, was being placed on the non-importance of Gregory House's whereabouts. "Okay," he said. "Call me if you need me." And put the phone back in its cradle.

He turned back to his open file and tried to concentrate. His headache began to feel "iffy" again. He was damned if he was going to go looking for House. House was a big boy and could take care of himself.

Thunder and lightning and wind and rain and snow carried on against his windows like souls demented.

At 221 Baker Street, the landline telephone rang. And rang.

No one answered.

The cell phone rang … but the contents of House's sock drawer muted it. The battery

on its automated dialing response clicked and faded as its batteries drained.

Cuddy frowned and glared at the receiver as though somehow it was the machine's fault.

Damn him!

House was either on his way to work and stuck in traffic, or in bed hiding under layers

of blankets. Probably the latter. He had an annoying habit of flouting authority and doing what was most convenient for him, regardless of consequences or inconvenience

to others.

One other possibility, however, nagged at the back of her mind: maybe he was ill or unable to answer the phone … or both. Cuddy seldom let these fears be known, but as a doctor she was sometimes concerned about House's physical condition. He was not in the best of health even at the best of times. Today, James Wilson had not been willing to go running when House was not heard from beyond any anticipated time frame. Their friendship still had a lot of healing to do.

Cuddy hesitated to call Wilson back again. James was struggling to bring his life and career back into perspective, and she hated to bother him with errand-boy requests. The past few months he was more than a little standoffish with regard to his best friend. His decision not to be a doormat for House's whims and juvenile demands still held Wilson back from resuming the unconditional love he'd once held for the child-man who had wiped his big feet on him for too many years.

House, in turn, seemed genuinely puzzled by his friend's reticence. He fought it the only way he knew how: by keeping uncharacteristically silent, and very characteristically to himself.

Their friendship was still there, Cuddy knew. But right now it was blinking on 'hold', walking softy and carrying a big stick.

She frowned and swore quietly.

Then she redialed Wilson's number … and waited.

He was not answering either.

She hung up and propped her chin on her palm.

Picked up the lipstick with the other hand and twirled it.

18


	4. Chapter 4

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 4

"Errand of Mercy"

January 9, 2009

12:45 p.m.

It was like being blown backward through a wind tunnel when Lisa Cuddy struggled with the door into the vestibule of Gregory House's old apartment building. The door blew shut against her back and made her gasp as water and snow cascaded off her coat onto the floor. She shivered suddenly while collapsing the umbrella.

_Oy vey! Will this mess ever stop?_

She hung her purse over her shoulder and drew a deep breath, gathering herself for the next stop on this adventure. She was going to break House's damn neck, especially if he was all right and simply ignoring his phone. Then she turned around and hammered on the door.

No answer. No sound from within. No candlelight line at the threshold; only the normal dim light of stormy midday. She made a fist and hammered again with the heel of her hand and the bone of her wrist.

_Ouch! _

No response and no sign of human habitation. Her coat and hat and umbrella were still dripping.

"HOUSE!"

Cameron had let it slip once that he kept a spare key hidden over the door. Cuddy stood on tiptoe and stretched upward to feel along the narrow dusty ledge, moving her middle and index fingertips along the strip of wood until something small and hard moved beneath her fingers. She brushed her hand forward in a sweeping motion and the key clattered to the floor with a brassy clink.

_Aha …_

Cuddy let herself into the apartment and closed the door behind her. She tossed her wet things across the back of an old brown leather couch and looked around, orienting herself to the dim, masculine disorder of the place. It was dampish and shadowy as the inside of a cave. It had an unmistakable but not unpleasant "man-smell", heightened by the chill. It was downright cold in there. Not by choice. The citywide power failure had cut off House's lights _and_ his furnace. This whole building was probably shut down tight.

She backtracked, placed the door key on the table by the entrance and dropped the wet purse next to it. The first thing she saw when her eyes acclimated to the gloom was the overturned wooden step-stool in front of the bookcase. There was a smattering of stray papers strewn around also, as though they'd been dropped in a flurry of something much more important.

Closer to the middle of the room a small metal box lay open on the floor. Around it were unopened ampoules labeled "morphine". There too lay a pile of gauze pads and widely scattered disposable syringes still in their sterile wrappers. She did not have to look further to know what had happened. She scanned the rest of the telltale accoutrements discarded atop the coffee table.

There was an empty ampoule and another syringe, this one used, along with a plastic

cap and torn sterile papers. A double thickness of gauze wads spotted with blood, and

a length of heavy rubber strapping lay abandoned beside them.

The hairs at the base of Cuddy's neck stood on end.

"House?" Her voice was shaky. She couldn't help it. Was he in trouble?

There was no answer. She had not really expected one. But still, she felt a chill down her spine as the hairs at the base of her neck came to attention. She glanced around. She could see into his kitchen, but it was dark in there too, of course. Next to that was a wide hallway lined with bookcases that probably led to his bedroom and bath.

Cuddy had only been inside this place once before, but hadn't remembered much of it. She felt like an intruder, half afraid of what she might find. She had doubted him and was wrong. He would not be happy to discover that she had come to his place to check up on him, but that was the truth of the matter. She moved down the hallway cautiously and peeked around the corner into his bedroom. The door hung half open … odd articles of clothing littering the floor.

"House?"

He was on the bed, clad only in flimsy nightwear, turned on his left side atop a tangle of sheets and blankets. His powerful right arm was locked into a straight line along his side, his hand partially cupped over the scar.

Even in sleep he protected it.

Cuddy felt the heat of outrage at the cruelty of his bizarre life.

His bare arm was paved with gooseflesh.

He was asleep, or more accurately, unconscious. His hair was a darkened bramble patch on his head, and his untrimmed beard blended the lower half of his face into the heavy folds of the grey blanket beneath him. His mouth was open and tiny spots of dampness dotted the edge of the pillow. The lids of his closed eyes were rimmed with long silken lashes that fanned out across his pale parchment cheeks like humming bird wings.

Gregory House looked thin and stringy, drawn and haggard. His sleep was anything but restful. Cuddy sat down on the edge of the bed close to his side and touched the backs of her fingers to his temple. His hair was still curled with dried sweat and she could smell the rank odor left behind by lingering pain.

She checked his carotid pulse and found it to be within normal parameters. He was coming down from the morphine dose gradually and did not seem the worse for it. He must have taken this way out before, she realized. The stash had obviously been lifted from the hospital. He was breathing harshly through his mouth, but it did not seem labored.

She wondered how much time had passed since he'd injected himself. A drop of dried blood and a tiny bruise decorated the inside bend of his left elbow. Must have been late last night or early this morning.

Damn him! He always put himself at risk when the severity of his pain overwhelmed his common sense. Cuddy had caught him catnapping on the job now and again, and had chastised him for it until Dr. Wilson reminded her that chronic pain was a very poor proponent of restful sleep. House had to grab a few moments here and there whenever and wherever he could.

It was no wonder then, that he had not answered his phone or showed up for work. The pain must have been unusually severe. At work he would have bitten his tongue until it bled rather than admit that he was hurting too badly to concentrate. He would have crawled off into a corner by himself. He was a proud and private man, and God forbid that he ever reveal a moment's vulnerability. She sat still and watched him breathe.

James Wilson didn't bother with the overcoat. He was, after all, parked in the shelter of his assigned space. He threw off his lab coat, grabbed his jacket, transferred wallet and electronic devices. He fled down the stairs and headed for the parking garage. Catch-up work and hospital rounds were discarded in an instant as the old fear from infarction days gripped his gut anew. He hurried to the car, started it and pulled out with a screech of tires on concrete.

_Dammit, House!_

Here he was … running to the rescue again.

He would probably find his friend on the old leather couch, leg propped on a pillow and wrapped in a blanket. There would be junk food residue and the Game Boy in his hands in lieu of a darkened TV. House would be ignoring the storm. His phone would be off the hook, his cell phone buried in his sock drawer or turned off.

That was _probably _what he would find. But what if it were something else?

Wilson turned onto Baker Street and pulled to the curb in front of House's place. Cuddy's Lexus was already there, as he knew it would be. They were of a mind. He turned up his collar, opened the driver's door and made a beeline for the front entrance of the old brick building. Slushy snow came up over his oxfords and iced his socks and feet.

In the vestibule he shook off a cascade of slush and listened to the outer door slam shut beneath the howl of the wind. He tried House's apartment door and it was unlocked as he'd expected.

Wilson saw the same things Cuddy had seen ten minutes earlier.

They'd both been wrong. House was not screwing around this time …

Wilson threw off his jacket and rushed back to the bedroom.

Cuddy had covered House with a heavy blue blanket and had spooned her small body up against his back, offering whatever additional warmth she could provide. All Wilson could see of the other man was the top layer of wiry hair spiking like porcupine quills from beneath the blanket.

Wilson smiled with relief and amusement as he assessed the situation.

Lisa had dug around in the closet for an extra blanket; found one, spread it over House and climbed up behind him. Shortly after that she heard the front door of the apartment open and close.

There was a minute of stark silence, and shortly she heard familiar footsteps hurrying down the hallway. Wilson stuck his head around the corner and then walked in.

"We kind of messed up connections all around this morning," he offered by way of apology.

"Yeah. We sort of did," she whispered back.

"How is he? Still sleeping it off?"

"Yeah. You knew what he was up to, didn't you?"

Wilson nodded, but said nothing. What else _could_ he say?

"He reeks," she continued. "Too much pain, I think. From the look of this bed, he had a rough night ... and he never says a damn word to anyone when things get this bad …"

Cuddy sat up and slid gracefully off the bed. House did not move.

"No, he never does," Wilson admitted. "It's breakthrough pain, I think. It happens every couple of months or so. I've seen him go through it a few times before, and it always lays him low. This 'hiding out' of his, though, has got to be resolved once and for all, along with the other dangerous stuff he pulls, if he wants this friendship to survive."

"Good luck with that," Cuddy said. She joined him at the doorway to the bedroom.

They gravitated quietly to the kitchen to hunt for House's coffee pot.

They were both grateful that the big stove used gas rather than electricity. Wilson discarded his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He found the coffee press beneath a counter and set it on the surface while Cuddy filled a kettle and put it on a burner to heat. Wilson scooped coffee into the grinder and ran it, then emptied it into the glass carafe. "We need to turn the other burners on and warm it up in here," he said. "I think I'll light the oven too. This place cools off pretty fast."

He knelt to the task and turned the gas all the way up. He opened the oven door slowly and frowned with exasperation. Cuddy watched him remove three dirty pans with layers of baked-on food. He straightened with a tight grin. House, as always, was nothing if not predictable.

The pilot light made the large oven emit a gassy "whump" when it lit. Within a few seconds a wave of welcome heat spread outward to penetrate the kitchen and warm their bones. Wilson set the stack of dirty pots in the sink. He then took off his wet shoes and socks.

Cuddy nodded appreciatively. "It's getting warmer already, James. Thanks." She was chilled, and the warmth from an oven this size felt good. She stood back and watched her colleague with admiration. He was completely at home in this cluttered and elegant dump, and traversed every corner of it as though it were his own. She felt a twinge of envy over James's closeness to the man who occupied the place. His ease of navigation around this eclectic kitchen spoke to Cuddy of all the bachelor weekends these two must have spent together over the years. Raucous guy-laughter and sleazy banter filled with sexual innuendo, beer, greasy take-out food, and uncounted hours of televised sports.

Wilson was trusted and given free reign by a man whose life of isolation sometimes reminded her of a prisoner in solitary confinement. It spoke volumes about Wilson's significance in Gregory House's otherwise lonely life. Their friendship had probably been cemented long ago when they were both much younger and had nothing but bright futures ahead of them.

And then had come the infarction and things between them had become complicated.

She hoped their friendship could be patched up quickly: sewed, glued, pummeled, and soldered back together again. Neither man could survive the insanity of life without the other.

"How long have you known him?"

She was standing before one of the tall, glass-front cupboards reaching for Earthenware coffee mugs. She pulled out three of them and set them atop the counter, all the while looking at Wilson's boyish face in an interested manner.

He wrinkled his nose for a moment, thinking. "About twenty years or so," he replied. "Why?"

"No reason, really … just curiosity. I knew him a little longer than you, but after college

we both went our separate ways and didn't see each other again until he started working here in Princeton. I was too busy climbing the corporate ladder … and he was too busy just raising hell."

Wilson looked over at her in a moment of surprise. "Seriously? That's the first time

I've ever heard you speak about that … or about House before I knew him. Why did you branch off? You're a good doctor." Wilson lifted the kettle that had begun to whistle on the front burner. The room was warming up nicely.

"I started out specializing in Endocrinology, but after about three years of nose-to-the-grindstone I knew I wasn't really happy with it … I hated being buried in a research lab. But I _was_ good at managing people. I found that I communicated well with them, and they with me. I was good at planning schedules and arranging resources. Good at talking millionaires and their organizations into parting with their money. Good at consultation. I found I could be very charming if I had a reason to be. So I took things in another direction …"

She paused, sniffing the heady aroma as he poured boiling water into the carafe. "That smells wonderful."

Wilson smiled as he placed the hot kettle back on the sideboard. "Be ready in a minute or so. Want it black or with cream?"

"Black," she said. "I think the main reason I earned my M. D. at all was attributable to all the black coffee I drank while I burned the midnight oil."

He grinned and held both hands close to the hot carafe. "Mmmmnh … feels good."

A sudden blur of movement ended the conversation and drew their eyes toward the kitchen doorway.

House leaned hard into the doorjamb.

In his right hand a ratty old broom shored him up.

It was comical and it was pitiful.

He looked a little like Emmet Kelly after the circus was over and the clown-face came off.

His expression was one of anger … like the raging storm outside. "What the hell are you two doing in my kitchen? This place is cold as a fucking barn. What's going on?"

Then his balance and his strength slipped away. House lost his grip on the broom and grabbed for the door frame with both hands.

It was too little too late. …

Fingernails uselessly scraping the wall, he sank like a stone in water.

30


	5. Chapter 5

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 5

"Let There be Light"

Princeton

January 9, 2009

Midafternoon

And evening …

Outside the wood and brick apartment building where Gregory House resided, the wind and rain and snow were just beginning to show signs of easing off. Police and auxiliary patrols walked the clogged streets, braving the weather; foul weather gear buttoned tight beneath their chins.

Traffic crawled at a snail's pace. Drivers were a little leery of patrol cars with line lights flashing, monitoring every street corner where traffic signals had been dark for hours. Vehicles sloughing along icy water-clogged thoroughfares remained very sedate.

Police in downtown Princeton had traffic snarled almost to a stand-still as streets remained blocked by power company trucks and other repair vehicles. Work crews struggled to trace electrical lines and check every connection and every junction box

for burned-out circuits.

Across from United Bank and the U. S. Post Office, one ladder truck and two utility pickups loaded with huge reels of electric cable, converged in the middle of a normally busy intersection. Hazard lights blinked in a flurry of red, white, blue and amber. The glare of rotating emergency lights flashed a continuous warning for motorists to steer clear.

Balancing from a ten-wheeler's extension ladder and braced against a light standard, two workers clung to their harnesses, arms wrapped around the stout uprights. Both men wielded high-power torches, equipment pouches and tool belts slung across their broad shoulders. They had been struggling against sleet, rain, snow and gusting winds for hours. Both were cold, exhausted, and more than ready for this siege to be over. Slippery conditions slowed their movements to a crawl as, gingerly, they loosened the cover from one more junction box to check the conduits inside.

One of the workers wore a telephone headset built into his hard hat, and he thumbed his mike from time to time, speaking with two line foremen across town at the electric company's main substation. Turbines housed there had all shut down automatically when the auxiliary power junctions failed, causing a domino effect, and the town went dark.

Wrenching open the heavy cover of the metal box and peering inside with his flashlight, the second man jockeyed around to take a closer look. Shortly after that, he pulled away again, turned the beam of the flashlight downward and leaned back. Gesturing to the crew gathered impatiently in the middle of the street, he gave a thumbs-up sign. He'd finally located the problem in the next-to-last box. It figured. Now they had to wait for the line boss' final inspection and clearance from the mayor's office and chief of police.

After an interval of impatient waiting, they received clearance and spent another fifteen minutes removing damaged components. New ones were bucketed quickly upward and painstakingly installed in their place. Finally, the job was ready for testing. One of the men on the ladder yelled a warning and then dropped a blackened, car-battery-sized, heat-melted maze of ruined wires and conduit onto a stretch of empty pavement below.

The crew stepped up and cheered, all of them soaked to the skin and shivering with a mixture of relief and cold. Like a group of drowned rats, they stood jubilant within the protective circle of trucks.

Once more the first crewman spoke a few words into his mike. He and his tired partner replaced and relocked the cover of the junction box and moved a few cautious rungs further down the ladder.

Everyone waited expectantly while across town at the substation, the two supervisors in yellow raincoats and white hard hats waited for word. It finally came. The taller of the two men threw the main breaker that reactivated the turbines.

A second for the contacts to mesh …

… and there was light.

Princeton, New Jersey, came back to life as traffic signals resumed and neon signs and streetlights again lit the main drag and spread across the rest of the city. Private homes all over the town lightened the gloom. Refrigerators came on and hummed; televisions resumed their fragmented rainbows into hundreds of living rooms. Digital alarm clocks and microwave ovens beeped annoyingly at the resumption of power, and furnaces turned on again to suck the chill out of the air in every house along the line.

Meanwhile, Gregory House stirred in his bed with a sigh, waking slowly, instinctively knowing better than to make any sudden moves. He blinked, hooded eyes taking in his surroundings without risking a physical shift along the length of his body.

_Pathetic!_

He was warm. Disgustingly so. He could feel the dampness of fresh perspiration circling his tee shirt collar and mucking under his arms. He caught a whiff of his own stench and turned his head away. Sweat and mothballs. He risked moving his right hand off the scar to push away the corner of blanket that enfolded him like a cocoon, and discovered it to be an old blue Woolrich from his closet that hadn't seen the light of day in years.

_What the … ?_

He paused, mentally running a scenario in shades of indignation. Someone was here. In his house. Three guesses.

House moved to the right slightly, and his body still felt sort of neutral. Not really hurting, not really _not _hurting. It could go either way. He remembered the injection he'd given himself, however-long ago it had been, and the difficulty he'd had hobbling back to his bedroom.

Shit! …my freakin' cane is in the living room ...

He pushed the heavy blanket away and trailed his fingers upward from his knee. Then back across the thigh and around to cup the adductors. He explored further in a diagonal path from the waistband of the scrubs, to his hip, pressing lightly and registering a stab of pain at his sore hipbone.

The morphine dose had not only fooled his brain into thinking his leg no longer hurt. It also minimized the pain from the damage caused to his ass when he careened off the step stool and crashed to the floor.

He remembered dragging his butt across the living room floor and onto the couch; tearing wrappers off sterile gauze pads and fumbling with the throw-away syringe. He recalled pulling the rubber strap tight around his bicep and plunging the needle into the vein. He wondered how much of a problem the hip was going to be. He'd already decided the rest of his shaky mobility was probably shot to hell.

He'd screamed like a Banshee when he landed on the living room floor. He hoped his neighbors thought it was just the howl of the wind … the wail of the rain ...

He knew he had not covered himself with the smelly old blanket. There was someone else here. It was too quiet. Had to be Wilson. Who else?

Wilson never minded his own business.

Wilson couldn't find him at work and … well, he knew the rest.

_I know you're in there … I can hear you caring ..._

Cuddy and Wilson looked up from their coffee, surprised and horrified.

They set their cups on the counter and hurried across to House like puppies to a food dish. They'd seen the broom skid to the side and clatter on the floor. They also saw Gregory House slide down the doorjamb and land on his ass with a muffled outcry.

House saw them bearing down and strong-armed them. His eyes were smoldering. 

_KEEP BACK!_

They saw his arm come up, rigid and in-their-faces, palm extended, fingers splayed.

"Oh hell … not _both _of you! Nobody touch me!"

Wilson went to his knees on the cold floor, inching closer, extending a hand. Cuddy bent from the waist, looking into the hard glitter of House's eyes as they turned two shades darker. He was not bluffing.

She reached down and touched Wilson's shoulder. "Back off, James. Do as he says … please."

Wilson wilted where he sat and withdrew his hand. He turned around again and saw House's arm drop slowly as his fingers settled back over the scar.

"Son of a _bitch_!" House growled. "I must be at the top of your 'to-get' list."

"If you mean just because you didn't call in … and didn't answer your phone when _we_ called _you_ ... you're right," Wilson said tersely. "We were worried. No one had a clue where the hell you were. It would be nice if you'd let us know what's going on instead of snarling like a junk yard dog when we care enough to come and check."

"Stow it, Wilson! If I ever need help, I'll ask. I don't need a posse tracking me down and breaking in here ..."

His hand tightened on his thigh, kneading up and down, all the way to his hip. His head lowered as he leaned more tightly into the doorjamb. He made a move to straighten his left leg beneath him, and the effort brought a hiss of indrawn breath. A string of curses sailed from his lips and turned the air blue and heavy around them.

"House … ?" Cuddy's voice was a plea.

"Get back and let me alone! Why is it so freaking cold in here?"

"Power failure. All over town. Your furnace is off, but Wilson has the oven lit and it's warmer if you're higher up. Can you stand? You can move closer to the stove, have a cup of coffee and warm up …"

Cuddy's words were interrupted by a burst of sardonic laughter. "Thanks … but I can't move. That means I _can't_ get up … _can't _stand … and all that other stupid _'I can't'_ stuff

you already know about …"

Wilson slid closer. He did not touch House as his friend had demanded that he not do. House's eyes darted from one side of Wilson's face to the other, gauging the man's intentions. Suspicious and forbidding.

"What hurts?" Wilson asked kindly. "Is it just your leg?"

House shook his head in a tiny lateral movement. He was almost ready to back down. "No. Hip …"

Wilson frowned. It must be bad. House was getting honest. "Will you let me take a look?"

The nod of permission was feeble as the headshake of denial had been.

Wilson tugged up the edge of the tee shirt and peered beneath the loose waistband of the scrubs. The area around House's right hipbone had turned reddish purple. He was going to be sore for a while. It probably hurt like hell, but it wasn't serious.

"Nice job, Ace," Wilson commented dryly. "Maybe we should take you to visit the Scooter Store?"

The last thing House needed was to smile.

"Screw you, Wonder Boy!"

A corner of Wilson's mouth quirked upward. Half chagrin, half disgust. Part apology, part defiance.

Their eyes locked.

_I care about you, House._

_I care about you too, Wilson ... but don't fuck with me._

House then looked over into Cuddy's worried face, rolled his eyes skyward and sighed.

When she reached for House's hand though, he pulled away.

From across the room, a sudden warning squeal from the microwave broke the impasse. _Beep …_ _beep … beep … _Numerals in red began to flash.

A similar sound came from back the hallway … the old clock radio in House's bedroom.

Wall sconces blinked on in the living room. So did the reading lamp at the end of the worn leather couch.

A faint rumble of power vibrated beneath the floor, announcing that the monster furnace in the basement was pulling electricity from restored lines, its solenoid kicking in. With a muffled rumble, it turned over. In a few moments all the radiators in House's apartment began playing _Wipeout_ on their pipes; throwing welcome heat.

They suggested he let them assist him to navigate to the bathroom and submerge himself in a tub of hot water as soon as the water heated up again, which shouldn't take that long.

"Can we have coffee first?"

House was circling back toward normal.

Whatever-the-hell that was …

36


	6. Chapter 6

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 6

"A Brief Interlude"

Same Day,

A Little Later

Gregory House's idea of "normal" was a unique concept; not readily recognizable in

the real world. He'd always been a loner, more or less, due to the great number of times his family had had to uproot and relocate with the military. Over and over he'd had to leave friends behind, and over the years his solution to that problem had been to stop making friends. Nothing gained, nothing lost. Since the infarction though, he'd brought this sense of solitude to a whole new level. These days he kept _everyone _at arms' length.

Cuddy and Wilson both knew they were the only two that House ever allowed inside his impenetrable fortress of isolation. Like today: hiding behind a curtain of pain, he had still cordoned them off fiercely until he could figure out that he was not being patronized and that they wanted nothing from him other than to help. As they waited … Cuddy across the kitchen by the coffee pot and Wilson, close enough to reach out and touch House's hand … both understood that they must not make a move until House allowed it. This they afforded him. And now his eyes were throwing fewer sparks and his posture had wilted just enough that he'd finally lowered his head and grown silent. Permission for them to intercede was soon forthcoming. He knew they must lift him; get him on his feet. He could not do it on his own.

Wilson stood up quickly and crossed the room to turn off the oven and surface units. This place would warm up quickly as it had cooled off quickly, and Wilson didn't care to burn the place down while attending to more pressing concerns.

He rejoined Cuddy at the spot where House still sat pressed into the woodwork. They knew he might fight them when they tried to move him. He might lash out instinctively

when they lifted him, because it would hurt. But it had to be done. They looked him in the face, waiting for the nod that said they could begin. If there was one thing in the world they both gave to Gregory House willingly, it was respect.

The nod came, finally.

They must get him to the bathroom; to the toilet … and wait around while he tried to distract by making obscene jokes about his modesty. They must get him into a tub of water as hot as he could stand it. Maneuver him in while he cursed at both of them for manhandling him. They must wait patiently while he bathed himself. He wouldn't like it. He would bay like a sick Bassett hound. Then he would bitch because they had forgotten to give him coffee …

Right now he was rank with the stench of fear-sweat and tension and the effort not to scream. They had to listen to him whine and complain, because that's what he did to cover up the severity of his pain. He would grandstand to distract them and he was damned good at it.

Someone must search for a decent pair of PJs in that rat's nest of a dresser drawer. Wilson knew House had clean ones somewhere … he just preferred going to bed in rags because it was too much trouble to hunt for something better.

They would have to assist him into bed and get him situated in a manner that would not jolt the injured hip, (in that regard he had no one to blame but himself), yet still be tolerable for his leg, (and there was no way he could be blamed for that). He would bitch and moan that his privacy was being violated, that he was perfectly capable of doing it all himself. They knew he wasn't.

Sometimes Wilson came close to losing patience. Chronic pain did strange things to a man who had to live with it every minute of every day of his life. Wilson had to remind himself constantly that he would probably behave much the same way if he had to live with it day-in-day-out, knowing it would never get better without extreme means, and never go away.

House looked over to Cuddy, eyes dark and questioning, and she looked back at him with that sympathetic expression she always wore at times like this ... the one with the touch of clueless exasperation.

House would never admit it, but this time he was scared. He gathered himself into a tight ball and nodded permission for them to lift him.

"Get on with it!"

Wilson slid the broom out of the way across the kitchen floor. He and Cuddy moved close on either side of House and lifted together beneath his arms. He pushed up with his left leg, but it was weak too, and he faltered. They hung suspended for a moment until he grunted assent. They all straightened together.

Most of his weight rested on their shoulders, badly balanced because of their disparate heights. They trudged back the hallway to the bathroom a step at a time. House held his breath, staggering and gasping. He was beyond whining or cursing. Instead, he bit down on the insides of his cheeks, concentrating on the task at hand and allowed them to do what they had to do. They walked him gently along.

By the time they got him bathed, dressed in fresh pajamas, medicated with a dose of Vicodin, and propped into bed, all three were exhausted.

In the bedroom House turned his face into the pillow and let the frustration release him slowly. He could not face them. He curled his fingers tight to his palms, white-knuckled it and rode out the interval until the medication took effect. Finally the Vicodin brought release. His breathing deepened and his body unclenched.

Cuddy was bedraggled and exhausted; clothing saturated with bath water. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail that took ten years off her age and made her look like a woman who'd just run a marathon.

She sat on the edge of House's bed with head down and hands in her lap. Dark tendrils escaped from the rubber band and hung to her shoulders and into her eyes. After a few moments she reappraised House, who looked small and vulnerable in the big bed. That he had not made any jokes about her appearance spoke volumes about how exhausted he still was.

Wilson himself had long since peeled down to his tee shirt, sweat-darkened hair hanging in strings over his forehead. His dark eyes were fixed on the profile of his best friend. Wilson's lips were pressed into a straight line that hinted at relief, affection, annoyance and worry.

House, you're an idiot. Why do you have to always live on the edge and play your silly games? Don't you get it? Here we both are again … right back where we were before Amber died. I'm still running after your sorry ass every time you holler … back to walking the tightwire.

House opened his eyes again at 7:00 p.m.

He was alone in shadows with all the lights dimmed to a glow and the door slightly ajar. What the hell did they think he was; a six-year-old scared of monsters under the bed?

He lifted a hand and scraped it across his roughening expanse of beard. The lower half

of his face was a briar patch. His mouth tasted as though he'd been chewing on a lump

of newspaper. His leg ached dully, but he could tolerate that. It was about the same as it usually was on his "good" days.

The sore hip, however, throbbed dully. He wondered if he had chipped the bone. No. The bruise was in the wrong place. The cane tip had done damage to the gluteus maximus, notthe bone. He had hurt the only muscle left that controlled movement of his entire leg.

_Crap! _

His limp would be more pronounced than usual for awhile. Christ! It would hurt like a bitch just to sit up straight.

Right now he needed a diversion. He was hungry. Something spicy and delicious to warm his belly was the order of the day. Something crunchy and fried and full of bad cholesterol, even better. And a gallon or so of beer to wash it down. Yeah.

He lay quiet and listened to the sounds of his apartment. White noise. Noise that wasn't noise … just an annoying absence of sound that went unseen and unheard … like oxygen and nitrogen colliding with carbon dioxide … all three tumbling in the air locked in mortal combat. He smiled.

_Quiet riot!_

He wrinkled his nose, opened his mouth and shouted:

"Hey! Anybody here? I'm _hungry_!"

Silence.

James Wilson sat at one end of the couch for awhile, and Lisa Cuddy sat at the other. She had checked in with the hospital and informed House's team of his status, and had learned in return that all electrical systems were back up and running.

_Thanks to all the Powers that Be … and Jersey Light & Power!_

Meanwhile, Wilson called for takeout and the two of them finished generous portions of piping hot Chinese, and discussed what they might do to make House more comfortable.

The sad truth was: nothing.

They'd left his bedroom earlier and allowed him to get as much sleep as he could. When the Vicodin wore off, he would hurt again, but they did not want to administer another dose so soon.

Cuddy was acutely aware that her most valuable doctor would be unable to gallop around the hospital according to his habit. She hinted to Wilson it would be up to him to decide what to do next, even if he had to play the role of babysitter.

That was a laugh!

She also told him she would allow him to ease back into his own caseload as House's injury healed, and that he might need to use crutches for a while.

Wilson nodded agreement.

_Oh crap! Tightrope …_

Cuddy left the warm apartment at 6:45 to return to the hospital beneath a clear, cold storm-free sky and icy streets. Always the administrator first, she needed to see for herself how her staff was making out after this harrowing day. What she didn't bother

to mention was the fact that she also needed to check how many man-hours had been charged out to overtime.

James Wilson got up from the couch after Cuddy left and carried their dirty food containers to the kitchen. From there he went back to House's bedroom and quietly searched the dresser drawers for sweats that might fit well enough to use after he emerged from a _very_ hot shower. House was still asleep and Wilson took notice that

the stress lines in the man's face were mostly gone. He must be resting comfortably, finally. He looked relaxed. His face was no longer hidden in the depths of the pillow.

Wilson had noticed that every time he'd seen House asleep in recent years, the release of those stress lines seemed to take ten to fifteen years off his friend's face. House's eyelids turned almost translucent, the lashes long and thick. Deep lines that the infarction had pressed deeply about his eyes were almost absent.

James felt a stab of sympathy for the sad fact of House's disability, and he found himself hoping, not for the first time, that by some miracle Gregg's full health might somehow be restored. Wishful thinking indeed. Wilson did a lot of that these days. Wishes that never came to fruition.

He sighed and picked up the sweat suit he'd found. He tiptoed into the bath, closing the door gently and quietly behind him …

An hour later, James Wilson sat alone on the couch. The TV was tuned to the Weather Channel with the sound down low. His belly was full, their takeout cartons in the trash, and he had a cold beer in front of him. House was still sleeping, and that was good. They had ordered for him also, and his food was in bowls in the refrigerator. Wilson could nuke it quickly whenever House awoke. Probably not too long from now …

Staring idly at the TV screen, an idea began to form in his mind. If House could not return to a full work schedule at the hospital for a week or so, then he should be up for a trip to Kentucky to see his mother; get some things ironed out and make peace with his dad's memory.

Wilson could drive them, and perhaps they could both apologize to Blythe for the free-for-all at the funeral home. Cuddy should certainly warm to the idea because she had already given him permission to babysit, and that meant they would both be out of her hair for awhile … and it might be nice to have House all to himself for a time.

That's when the bellow broke into the evening quietude and caused Wilson to roll his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Coming …" he bellowed in return. He made a quick trip to the kitchen and popped the bowls of food into the microwave.

"Wil-_son_?"

"I said I'm _coming_!"

Wilson stood in the bedroom doorway and looked bored. "Your Lordship rang?" He said with all the sarcasm he could muster.

House glared at him from beneath beetled brows. "My leg hurts and I have to pee," he said. "Where's Cuddy?"

"Why do you want to know?" Wilson asked. "Did you want her to see you pee so she'll see you can do it all by yourself?"

He got another dirty look.

"She went back to the hospital. I can get you to the bathroom okay. Or should I go get your damned broom? Maybe you could get on it and _fly _to the bathroom."

House intensified the glare to a glower. "_Now_, Wilson! I gotta go _now!"_

It took ten minutes.

Wilson hadn't realized how weak his friend actually was. House's foot dragged when he walked, and the limp was heavy. He leaned his weight on Wilson's shoulder. He might look frail, but at six-feet-plus, he was a handful.

When they maneuvered back to the bed, House looked across uncomfortably to the man who extended a single Vicodin in the upraised palm of his hand. House picked it up primly and, tipping his head back, swallowed it dry. He lifted his chin higher and glared at Wilson down the length of his elegant nose. For a change no snarky comments were forthcoming.

"Thanks for helping awhile ago," House said finally, eyes downcast. "You and Cuddy pulled my ass out of a tight spot."

Wilson nodded shortly. "Yeah … we did … and you're welcome. But guess what, Ace; you're gonna pay it back."

The expression turned from benevolence to suspicion. "What?"

Wilson smiled slowly and serenely while adjusting the blanket at House's waist. "You and I are going on another little road trip together."

"What're you talking about? You know I can't …"

"The hell you can't!" You can use your crutches if you have to. I'll give you a couple days until your hip is better … then you and I are going to Kentucky to visit your Mother. You can ride in the plush passenger seat of my brand new Volvo sedan."

"You gotta be kidding."

"You heard me. I'll give you 'til next Saturday. You owe me big time, and you owe your mother. We're going to Lexington. I'll help you pack your suitcase Friday night."

"No way in hell! My crippled ass is definitely not going back down there! Do you have any idea how much misery you'll put me in if you expect me to ride in a freakin' car that long? Oh nooo ya don't ..."

The bellow had returned in all its glory.

Wilson ducked into the hallway and then spun around to look back. It was hard to keep a straight face. "Your dinner, by the way, is in the microwave. You did say you were hungry, didn't you?"

Behind him, House's mouth was a thin line across his face, which was livid. Not too much different from his usual expression … except that things had become suddenly quiet.

"Want to come out to the living room?" Wilson called from the kitchen a few minutes later. "It's warm out here and I'll put a clean blanket and pillow on the couch for you. By the way, I hung your cane there beside you on the headboard. If you're too sore to use it, we'll get out the crutches."

It was a long time before an answer floated out from the bedroom. "Did you get beer?"

Wilson waited a moment.

Then: "Yeah. It's here with your dinner. I rented a couple videos you'll probably get a charge out of."

"Porn?"

"Yup."

"Be right there."

House limped pitifully out of the hallway and into the living room on the crutches he'd used right after the infarction. Plastered on his craggy face was his best 'hurt-puppy' expression. He said nothing, just plopped onto the couch with effort, dropped the crutches loudly on the floor and picked up his chopsticks.

From the chair across the room, Wilson hid his smile of one-upmanship behind the fingers of his left hand. He swore to God, if there were such a thing as Academy

Awards for idiots, House would certainly be in the Hall of Fame by now. …

The announcement of the trip to Lexington had gone far better than he'd expected.

Now, he sat quietly and drank his beer and waited for the other shoe to drop.

44


	7. Chapter 7

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 7

"The Stagecoach Rolls"

8:00 a.m.

Eastern Standard Time.

Friday, January 16, 2009

The morning sky reminded Wilson of old bath water: slate gray clouds against a backdrop of charcoal and umber. There was no snow on the ground, thankfully, and no prediction of snow in the forecast. But it was _cold. _And it was icy in spots.

"Great freaking day for a hanging …" House bitched when Wilson woke him at 7:00 by announcing that breakfast was ready.

"Oh, quit complaining and get yourself to the bathroom," Wilson said. "The sun's supposed to come out by noon."

"Let me give you a Cherokee hand signal that says how much I care," was the sullen reply. House did not move from his cocoon beneath the covers.

Wilson turned nonchalantly from the bedroom doorway and retreated down the hall. "Hurry up or I'll eat it myself."

"Wil-son-nnn …" After having been politely stonewalled, House transformed from sullen-and-in-charge to needy-and-ignored in two seconds flat.

Wilson smiled and kept walking.

He was glad the past week was finally over. More than once he'd taken back his own words that House seemed to be easing off the sarcasm and the bitching. He knew House was sore and that his messed-up hip was giving him trouble. But he'd insisted on going to work anyway, flaunting the crutches to anyone who would listen and then lamenting his wounds to anyone still left after everyone else had walked away.

People quickly grew tired of hearing how badly Wilson was treating him.

House also commandeered a rickety wheelchair from one of the storerooms and terrorized the hallways in it. By Wednesday morning most of the staff could not wait to be rid of him. One more day of terrorism from this madman and they could breathe easier for an entire week. Many of them wondered why James Wilson continued to put up with his crap.

Friday morning arrived. House jammed the crutches into his hall closet, slammed the door, and resumed the use of his cane. Very gingerly.

Wilson's car was parked tight against the curb with the engine running. It was nearly 10:00 a.m. and the front passenger door stood open onto the sidewalk, front seat rolled back on its track as far as it would go.

"Can't believe I keep catering to a big baby like you," Wilson grunted under his breath. As his maternal grandmother used to say: "... like a bear with a sore ass in fly time." The exact meaning of that obscure idiom had escaped Wilson completely as a kid, but now its traditional wisdom rang true. House was a 'bear with a sore-ass' in more ways than one, and not only at 'fly time'...

Behind him on the sidewalk Gregg House hunched so crookedly over the top of his cane that he put Wilson in mind of Ebenezer Scrooge. He was wearing a pair of heavy sweatpants because his hip did not like the constricting tightness of jeans. He was, at least, wearing a new tee shirt under his ancient pea coat, and comfortably broken-in Nikes on his feet. He'd balked stubbornly at the thick socks and warm slippers Wilson offered last night, because: "Goddammit, I'm not eighty years old!"

"You certainly act like it sometimes," Wilson shot back. "Like an eighty-year-old _woman! _ Sometimes you act older than my grandmother. Come over here and get into the damn car!"

That brought sputterings and a few colorful phrases grumbled under his friend's breath. Wilson, however, turned and walked back into the apartment for the last of their luggage. He did not allow House to see the twinkle in his eyes.

One day earlier:

Thursday, January15

10:00 p.m.

They'd argued non-stop all evening. House never tired of cataloguing the reasons why he could not possibly make it through a journey to Kentucky. Not now. Not ever.

"Wilson, dammit," House bitched, "I don't want to ride in a car that long. It'll hurt.

You don't want me getting sick in your shiny new Volvo, do you? There's no telling how bad it could get."

Wilson shrugged. "If your pain gets out of hand, I'll give you a pill. If you get nauseous in the car, I'll pull over so you can take a breather. But if you upchuck in my new car on purpose, I'll turn all the heater vents around so you're the one who gets the stench. I'll lock your window and door so you can't open them … and when we get to Lexington, I'll make you get down on your hands and knees and clean it up."

"You wouldn't!"

"Wouldn't I?"

"You are a heartless bastard, Wilson, you know that? Everybody at the hospital knows it now … 'cause I told 'em. If you gave a crap, you wouldn't do this to me. I don't want to go to Lexington and stay with my mother. She _babies _me! Watchesme like Sherlock Holmes looking for clues … looks at me with the eyes of a shark to see if I'm in pain. Of _course_ I'm in pain! I don't want her waiting on me hand and foot … getting me stuff like she used to do for _him_. I don't want to hear boring stories about their married life. I don't want to know about the stuff he did when he wasn't trying to make me feel like a fool. I don't want her to take care of me ... make me want to disappear through the damn floor. I don't need to be babied."

Wilson's voice penetrated his friend's runaway diatribe gently. "You might want to think about your mother instead of yourself. She's still grieving for your father, you know, and she's in pain too …"

"Dammit,_ I'm_ the one in pain … "

"Are you serious? She lost her husband!"

There was a poignant silence for a few moments. Then, petulantly: "Yeah? Well, I lost the use of my damn leg! And _he_ used to tell her he thought I was faking it."

"He didn't tell her anything of the kind, House. I don't believe that for a minute. You were their only child. You're all she has left now, and she cares about you. It's what moms do. None of your whining makes any sense."

"Well, I don't want to go down there. All his _stuff _is there …"

"I'm sure it is. It's where he lived. He was your father, House."

"No he wasn't."

"He was the only father you ever knew. Give the man some credit. It's not like he beat on you with a stick."

"No … he beat me with words and stupid military orders … like I was some damn recruit. He was a crappy father. He was a crappy husband. The only thing he wasn't crappy at was flying airplanes and playing macho man. I disgusted him and the feeling was mutual. He knew I knew the truth."

"He loved you."

"How would you know, genius?"

"Because he wanted you to be strong. Because he couldn't always be there for you. He was old-time Marine Corps; a soldier in defense of his country. The softer side of him got lost underneath all the military protocol.

"John couldn't figure out how to tell you he loved you, House, so he tried to instill a sense of honor in you the only way he knew how: discipline. You couldn't see it, or forgive him for what he was. You still can't. All you have left is that damn chip on your shoulder. All you remember is the way it hurt you. Your father couldn't articulate his true feelings for anyone ... just like you can't articulate them now. It was 'sissy' then, and to you it still is. Your mother knew. Blythe always got it. She knows you're more _like_ him than _different_ from him."

No response.

Wilson's final rant gave them both a few blessed minutes of uninterrupted silence.

The room was very quiet, the atmosphere loaded with something like super-charged ozone after a bout of chain lightning. Their thoughts almost sizzled in the air.

Both men sat and glared at one another.

Then: "Wilson?"

"What?"

"I hate you."

"No you don't. You just don't want to hear the truth presented in a way you can't shoot down."

Wilson shifted in his chair while House paused to give his friend's closing statement more thought.

"Are you ready to go to bed?" Wilson finally inquired. "We should be on the road about noon tomorrow, and we still have to get your stuff together …"

"You mean _you _have to get it together. My leg …"

"_Your _leg," Wilson groused, is a pain in _my_ ass!" He grinned briefly. He wasn't sure what he'd said that got under House's skin the most,ouse's 's skin Hhh but when the other man didn't retort immediately, he scored the point for his own side.

And now it was Friday, and they were ready to leave.

If House ever got his sorry ass in the damn car ...

49


	8. Chapter 8

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 8

"Glad Tidings"

Lexington, Kentucky

Friday, January 9

Early in the morning she left the dog out.

Over the horizon a pale sun topped the hills and there was frost in the air. From somewhere to the east near one of the big horse farms she could hear the anxious squeal of a foal for its mother. Then the strident, deeper-throated answering neigh of the mare.

As a child, Gregory used to call out to her in the same demanding way as that foal. It made her smile and think of her son longingly. She opened the kitchen door and turned her head to listen in the direction of the distant barn. The equine voices had silenced by then, but thoughts of her son lingered. She tipped the screen door and paused, looking about, remembering when Gregg was little. He would run constantly in and out of whatever military billet they were assigned … always craving adventure … something new to study or stick his inquisitive fingers into ….

Baxter, the part-collie mix she and John had brought home from New Jersey a few years back, was eager for his morning run. An excited doggie whine met the cold day with eager expectation as he wove his dark, slender body between the two doors like an eel through water. Just like the youthful Gregory House, Baxter was always happy to escape the luxury of the hearth for the greater freedom of the back yard, even if there was snow a foot deep. She stood for a moment and watched the big dog circle the expanse, ears perked, tail waving behind him like a banner.

Unlike Gregg, however, Bax was still looking for John. He was always looking for John. Every car door that slammed up and down the block sent him on another hopeful quest back and forth along the perimeter of the fenced-in yard.

John and Baxter had been buddies. Companions. Blythe kept the dog fed and watered, stroked his dark shiny coat when he paused by her chair in the evenings after supper, but it was John he would seek out. His master was not coming back this time, and Baxter walked the lonely pathways of bewilderment at John's prolonged absence.

Evenings in the living room Bax would jump onto the big old recliner. Sometimes Blythe would play the piano or do a crossword puzzle or catnap to the TV's low drone. The dog's quiet gaze would rest upon her, questioning, longing, almost accusing. How could she make him understand they were on their own now?

Blythe gently closed the kitchen door. Bax would occupy himself patrolling the back yard for the next half hour or so … do his business and whine at the door to be let back in.

She walked over to the kitchen island where a half-completed grocery list lay abandoned, and a cup of coffee grew cold. She reheated the coffee in the microwave and stood at the counter to take a few sips.

_Egads!_

Coffee was a lot like life: you couldn't just let it sit and grow cold, because when you tried to reheat it, it sometimes turned on you. She pushed the cup away and reached for pen and tablet. It was difficult to concentrate. Many items she might have brought back from the grocery store had been John's choices, not hers. She must get used to making smaller purchases. In a strange way that realization left a hollow space in her stomach. Her eyes lifted to scan the room where she and John used to sit and eat supper together. She laid the pen back down.

Blythe would have stocked some of her son's favorites, she thought sadly, but she saw him so seldom anymore that, other than Reuben sandwiches, she'd lost track of what his favorites were. She rested her chin on the palm of her hand and stared into space, once again wondering if she had it within her to face life as a widow. Tears welled, but she fought them back. She had vowed she would not pity herself. Other women who had lost their husbands reached down to the depths of their souls and found strengths they

had not known they possessed. She must do the same. She had done too much grieving already, and it was time to get on with life.

Old habits, however, died hard. She still hesitated, waiting for the sound of his gruff voice when it became necessary to make decisions on her own.

Blythe thought of Gregg, the cherished son who for years had been almost a stranger to her. She longed to see him, speak to him and touch him. He had been stiff and distant during his father's viewing and funeral. It seemed as though he could scarcely wait to get away; remove himself from the rigid military formality and escape as quickly as possible to the familiar sanctuary of that austere hospital in New Jersey. His obvious discomfort in the company of his mother, dead father and all their old friends had played out in stony silence. His had been a more telling formality than all the military pomp and circumstance surrounding them.

His friend James, reserved and polite and awkward to a fault, held to Gregg's side like the Secret Service to the President. It seemed to Blythe as though the younger man spent two endless days holding his breath, lest Gregg say or do something thoughtless or disrespectful. James Wilson had made of himself the shield that would stop the bullet.

The two men had seemed at odds with each other all the way up until the moment they finally got into Wilson's car and left again.

_Why?_

Blythe brought her thoughts back to the present.

Morning was moving on. Sunlight inched across the window sill above the sink, and shadows moved backward. She realized she had been daydreaming a long time when a sudden shaft of sunlight crossed onto the back of her hand. The glare from her diamond ring hit her in the eyes, causing concentric red circles on her skin like ripples in a pond. She winced suddenly and blinked away the burning sensation.

Blythe pushed away from the counter and crossed to the door. Baxter was still outside, probably wondering where his breakfast was. He was sitting patiently by the screen door in his usual place on the concrete porch, waiting for someone to remember him. She let him in and busied herself with his water bowl and dog chow. Bax pushed his cold wet nose into her hand and she paused to stroke his silky coat.

"You miss your buddy, don't you, boy? I do too …"

Blythe washed her hands and was picking up a towel to dry off when the phone rang.

Another sympathy call? It seemed that those were all she received these days. Old friends still checking in on her. It was like their roles were beginning to reverse, and it was she who was reassuring _them._ People meant well, but she wished they'd go back to their lives and let her get back to hers.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. House?"

The voice was male; gentle, soft and polite. Blythe knew instantly who it was, and for a moment she felt a wave of apprehension race through her.

"James? What a nice surprise. How are you?"

She wondered if Gregg was okay. James Wilson did not normally call her of his own volition. She would withhold any questions though, until she determined his reason for the contact.

"I'm fine, thanks," he said. "I'm calling because I've been talking to your stubborn

son … arguing with him, actually. I think I may have finally convinced him that we

left some things undone and unresolved when we were there for John's funeral …"

Blythe made a wary face into the receiver. He was leading up to something and having

a difficult time broaching the subject.

His opening statement was telling. Something in James' voice hinted strongly at reluctance, and this polite young man was already taking great pains to "say his piece" delicately.

She paused; glad that he couldn't see the impatient look on her face. He was unconsciously patronizing her, as the young so often did with the old. She had not

been, after all, born yesterday.

She decided not to cushion her words with him as he was attempting to do with her. "Is there something wrong, James? Your diplomacy has some holes in it. You've always been transparent as a clean window. Is Gregory all right?"

The phone line between New Jersey and Kentucky grew staticky silent for a march of heartbeats. James Wilson found himself at a loss with this savvy lady and his discomfort came through the phone line like a shout in a mausoleum.

Blythe waited him out, giving him time to switch gears and stop beating around the bush. She knew he was becoming aware that his rehearsed and tactful approach had been gently outflanked. Then she heard his sigh of concession and another second of silence.

He finally cleared his throat and answered her question. "Not … exactly. He's been placed on sick leave for an indefinite length of time."

"Why? What idiotic thing has he done this time? And what does 'indefinite' mean, exactly?" Blythe kept her voice calm. She sat on one of the counter stools and reached down to run her fingers through the silky fur of Baxter, who had suddenly appeared at her side. The dog rested his whiskered muzzle on her knee and froze in place. He trembled, feeling the tension that radiated through her hand.

"I'm sorry," James said. "I didn't want to alarm you unnecessarily. He fell, at home, almost a week ago."

Blythe listened carefully, certain that Wilson was relating only the barest shadow of the truth. He was trying to cushion another blow that followed so soon on the heels of her husband's death.

"He overbalanced while standing on a step stool reaching for something on top of his book-case. He went down hard and his hip hit the tip of his cane. He bruised the bone a little and the muscle a lot. It's been difficult since for him to walk. He's been on crutches."

_You mean MORE difficult. _She suspected there was more.

Silence lingered for a few moments while Blythe considered what James Wilson was actually telling her. She wondered how much of what he was saying was indeed fact, and how much was spun glass wrapped in silk. She knew of Wilson's penchant for diplomacy and his tendency to soften the blow of any bad news he was required to deliver. Oncologists tended to be like that …

"James dear … remember who you're talking to. Are you trying to prepare me for something more serious? Or is Gregg really okay?"

"He's in a lot of pain," Wilson conceded. "And what he did to himself was irretrievably stupid. You had it right from the beginning. He'll be okay though. Well … about as okay as he ever gets …"

There was a sigh of amused relief in Wilson's tone as he dropped his efforts at pretense to deal with the facts.

"If it's convenient, I'd like to bring him down there to spend some time with you. He's been a tyrant at the hospital because he can't pace the halls. He's bored and driving all of us crazy with pranks and demands. The entire hospital staff is ready to strangle him. I think he needs to be with someone who isn't impressed with his brand of bullshit, and who won't stomp out of the room to get away from him. Or maybe you would, if he had it coming.

"He needs time with you, even though he won't admit it … and he certainly needs to apologize for being such an ass at John's viewing. Actually, I need to apologize for that too, for the same obvious reasons. House isn't the only one who acted like an idiot that day. He really doesn't completely agree with you that the war is over. Would it be all right if we waved a white flag and drove down to visit for a few days?"

Blythe House felt an old weight lifting from her shoulders. She straightened, gave Baxter a final pat and rose to her feet, feeling almost buoyant. "I can't think of anything I'd love more than having you both visit here as long as possible. And you can stow the white flag. He probably needs to discuss some of the battles in his damn war, and I'm the right person to call a truce, I think."

Wilson's chuckle told her that she had embarrassed him, and he understood the inflection she'd placed on those last words. He sounded as happy about it as she was. "I hope you still feel that way after a few days with him in your hair."

She laughed softly. "Wonderful! It's settled. When should I expect you?"

"We can probably leave here Friday morning. I have a case I need to clear up first. Two days on the road should get us to you sometime early Saturday evening … the seventeenth."

"James dear ... I don't know if you realize it or not, but your call just made my day. My week! When you get here, pull your car into the driveway and come in the house the back way. It will be easier for Gregg to navigate than the entry out front."

"I will," James said. "And thank you. Our stubborn friend would probably tell you the same thing … except he's napping on the couch right now, and I decided to call you while he's not shouting in my ear. I'm enjoying some peace and quiet. When he's awake he complains constantly about one thing or another, so it will be very nice to

offer him a distraction …"

Blythe laughed again. "You're preaching to the choir, dear. You see, I married one of those stubborn jackasses, and then gave birth to another one just like him. I'll see you Saturday then. Come hungry."

"Okay. We will. Sounds wonderful. See you soon."

"Goodbye James."

Blythe hung up the phone and stood deep in a cloud of jumbled thoughts beside the kitchen counter. Implications of an extended visit from her son and his best friend gave her pause to wonder what might be drifting in the wind, and what might eventually blow her way. This just might be the impetus she needed to move ahead in a new direction.

Gregg was not a social animal and had little talent for sentimentality and small talk. If he was in added pain as James had said, then his tolerance level would be down by another ten degrees. She loved her son dearly and wanted to see him again … even hold him close if he would allow it. She would like the opportunity to try. But she would not put up with his nonsense, and she would make sure that he found that out.

Blythe House was being offered the chance to finally make a lasting peace with this brilliant, difficult man who was her only child. They would be walking a tightwire, she supposed ... at least for awhile. There was always the chance things could go off track badly and make matters worse between them than ever before.

Was the war _really_ over?

Or was it just backing up for another heave-ho?

55


	9. Chapter 9

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 9

"Spasm"

Exam Room #3

Monday afternoon

January 12, 2009

"... Talked to your mother Friday night ... almost forgot to tell you …"

Wilson knew he was asking for trouble even as he spoke. He didn't know how to break the news to House and leave himself unscathed, and so he kept putting it off. He phrased it as a statement, offhand, spoken conversationally.

The silence that filled the room for a few heavy moments afterward, reminded him of the phrase: "… went over like a lead balloon ..."

Gregory House lay on a gurney in one of the hospital's exam rooms, wearing a thin hospital gown that barely covered his butt. He was mostly on his belly with his body canted to the left. The gown slid off to the side, exposing his darkly striated gluteus maximus to James Wilson's scrutiny. House's arms were crossed on the padded surface and his forehead was lowered to the backs of his hands. His delayed reaction to Wilson's remark caused his body to pump up like a balloon as his shoulders rose angrily.

"You did what? Whaddaya mean you _forgot _to tell me?"

James Wilson leaned calmly over the angular curve of his friend's bare behind with a hard clinical eye turned on the multi-hued bruise that decorated House's hip bone and surrounding muscle mass like a child's murky finger painting. Actually, Wilson was counting down to the explosive retort that was sure to follow.

Like an oncoming storm, House continued to gather himself. His powerful right arm pushed his shoulders into a banked incline until he was facing his best friend at a steep angle.

The glacial eyes glowered upward, glinting like nested sapphires. The corners of the thin-lipped mouth tucked against his upper teeth, a sure sign of House's angry disbelief. His head dipped and an eye squeezed shut in confirmation of the obvious. His reaction, however, was much less than Wilson had anticipated.

"You talked to my mom._ And you decided not to tell me until _now, because … ?_" _

House struggled to sit up while also trying to cover his privates with the hem of the flimsy garment. Wilson grabbed his friend's arm and hauled him upright until he was able to perch awkwardly on the edge of the gurney.

House's discarded tee shirt smacked him across the chest like a newspaper blown by the wind. It slid down across his chest and belly until it finally landed in a heap across his shadowed crotch. His hands clamped it firmly in place as he continued to glare daggers at Wilson.

"Here ... cover yourself!" Wilson grumbled.

"I _am _covered," House muttered menacingly, glaring and massaging his thigh with the heel of his right hand. "You made me come in here and get out of my clothes so you could look at my hip. So you looked. You satisfied? It's a _hip!_ It's connected to my ass. It got banged up and it hurts, but it'll get better. What'd you say to my mom?"

"Be quiet and finish getting dressed. I didn't 'make' you do anything."

"Wilson! You _called …_ my _mother! What did you say to her?"_

Wilson took a half step to the side; lips pursed in exasperation, and rested both fists on his belt line. "Yeah … well, I did call your mother. It wouldn't occur to you to do it … so _I_ did. Quit bitching. We're invitedto Lexington to visit.Now get down from there and go get dressed. You're okay. Your hip will heal when it heals. If you wouldn't climb around on rickety step stools, you wouldn't have a problem falling off. When you get home, put your morphine stash in your dresser drawer. You don't have to hide it way up there anymore. Tritter and his minions are long gone. Right now I have rounds to do and I can't be standing around listening to you whine. Get it through your head that we're going to visit your mother."

House glared and reached for his clothes. _"Me _whine? You haven't even _begun_ to hear me whine!"

Wilson glanced at the ceiling and counted to ten. "You can complain all you want, but the plans are made. She's expecting us Saturday night. I gotta go do rounds. I'll see you later."

Wilson turned on his heel and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Gregory House glared at the wall. Wilson wasn't going to be easy to hustle. He winced. His entire right side was beginning to hurt like hell.

When he went to ease off the gurney and grab his crutches, the atrophied muscles of his upper right leg gripped him in spasm. His hip joined in the circus and his entire right side froze tight.

"Oww …son of a _bitch! WIL-SON!" _ Gregg toppled onto his side; all angry thoughts vanishing as pain gripped his body and robbed him of breath.

Wilson was barely to the reception area when he heard House's muffled voice echo in the hallway. He did a '180' and hurried back to the exam room. House was gripping his

leg with both hands, biting his lip to keep from crying out again.

Wilson pushed House onto his back with little effort. Further examination revealed an area of rigid muscle as a hard spasm drew the leg into tight contracture. Breakthrough pain. He did not see it often, but he recognized it when he did see it. Wilson pulled House's hands away roughly and clamped his own fingers tightly around the pulsing thigh, digging into deformed muscle, palpating deeply with both thumbs.

House growled deep in his throat, straining back until his head made a noticeable dent in the gurney's hard vinyl surface.

Wilson could not make the spasms release by massage alone. House was losing all his ability to concentrate, his head still pushing backward, fists clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. The surgical scar on his thigh stood out pink, white and silver; like a burn hole blasted into the pale surface.

Wilson heard him grunt between clenched teeth: _"Morphine …" _

James let go and walked quickly to the med cabinets. There were two ampoules

and syringes to a kit, and he removed one of them quickly. He prepared the fresh syringe and injected the drug directly into the popliteal artery at the posterior ligament

of House's knee.

House collapsed, drained of energy like a spent marathon runner. Close to senseless, he lay spread-eagled on the gurney; crumpled tee shirt kicked to the floor, bony body on casual display. His arms and legs were splayed, limp from exhaustion and the power of the potent drug.

Wilson was panting too; damp with sweat, coming down from an adrenaline high. Both arms hung at his sides, fingers limp. The morphine kit and its extra syringe lay on the counter in a scatter of torn wrappers. Feet spread wide, searching for balance; Wilson struggled to clear his head of the overload. He had seen House in pain before, but seldom anything quite so violent as this. This was the second time in one week.

The morphine, however, had done its job.

The exam room was rank with sweat and exertion.

It was deathly quiet for three minutes … which seemed like three hours. Wilson removed a sheet from one of the cabinets and spread it over his friend after first straightening House's body to a more comfortable position on the gurney. Belatedly, he also eased a pillow beneath House's right knee.

Minutes later, tired eyes opened slowly to study the face of the man standing near him. House looked around until he realized where he was. A corner of his mouth quirked upward. "You never give me the benefit of the doubt, do you?" The thickened voice finally said. "Now would you _please_ tell me what the hell you said to my mom?"

Wilson simply shook his head. He played for time and busied himself by clearing off the counter, disposing of the sharps and placing the clutter in the trash.

"I told her," he said finally, "that you are a freaking _idiot!"_

"She already knows that! I guess that means we're still going to Lexington, huh?"

"Yeah … that's what it means. Okay?"

"I got a choice?"

"Not really ..."

"Fine!"

59


	10. Chapter 10

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 10

"A Reply Unanticipated"

Friday, January 16, 2009

Noonish:

"I'm hungry."

"Are you serious? We just had breakfast a couple of hours ago."

"I don't care. I'm, hungry. I have to pee. And my leg hurts."

"Okay. We'll stop."

"Seriously?"

"Certainly. I told you we'd stop whenever you needed …"

"Why are you being nice all of a sudden? I get suspicious when you're nice. Is it because you got to see me at my worst the other day?"

_*Pause*_

"Yeah, I guess. Partly."

"Don't do me any favors, Wilson. You make me suspicious. It messes with my head when you're too nice."

"You already said that, but I'll take it into consideration. Do you need to stop or don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Don't be screwing with me, House. And don't pull anything with my car keys. I'm not in the mood."

"So what's the 'partly' part?"

"What?"

"When I asked if you were being nice because you saw me screaming like a little girl, you said 'partly'. What's the other part of 'partly'?"

"'Partly' what?"

"Can't you just answer the question without playing 'Who's on Base'? I'm serious, dammit. What does the 'partly' part mean?"

"Do you want to hear what _you_ want to hear? Or do you want the truth?"

"Didn't know there was a difference."

"There is. But you might not like the answer …"

"I _already_ don't like the answer and I haven't even heard it yet. Stop at the next exit, okay?"

"Okay."

House's face turned boldly and curiously upon Wilson, eyes focused like twin lasers. At any other time Wilson would have been amused because he knew House's interest had a lot to do with knowing the conversation was going to be about him, and House's favorite subject had always been House.

Wilson knew that.

This time there was a minuscule difference. House's lips were pursed and his lower jaw was thrust out and set expectantly. His head was unbowed and he was not breathing through his mouth. He was staring at the bridge of Wilson's nose, his usual interpretation of eye contact.

There was no uncertainty in House's manner; no indecisiveness. He was keenly attuned to being given an answer. He was morphing his question and its possible reply into a mystery to be unraveled, not a simple conversation between friends. To House it had suddenly become a puzzle to be solved, and he expected information. Input. He was awake and alert and awaiting Wilson's direct reply to a direct question.

Like Brainiac in full process mode.

That was a miracle in itself.

Wilson wondered if there might be an uncomplicated conversation at the end.

Nah. Not a chance.

Wilson was a tad uncertain how to compose his thoughts into words that would not bring a salvo of derision. House had always been keenly aware of other people's opinions of himself and his motives, but he wasn't always quite certain of Wilson's. He would smirk at others' muttered undertow about his lineage and breeding, and turned those remarks quickly to his own advantage. Negative backlash gave him live ammunition and a sniper's position from which to return a barrage of vitriolic comments.

_Do unto others before (or right after) they do unto you!_

Politically incorrect zingers from House usually left people rooted to the spot in stunned

silence. House thrived on shutting them down and enjoyed being thought of as an ass. It drew attention away from his disability and installed him firmly as just another jerk with a big mouth.

House's image of a strong virile man such as himself, who had to depend on a cane to walk, had always galled him. So did pathetic displays of sympathy from others. _That _kind of attention was the last thing he wanted. It was essential in his mind that people dislike him first, before they had a chance to frown in pity at his obviously painful limp. All they really wanted, he was certain, was for him to move, and get the hell out of their way. Which was exactly what he would have wanted if he were an able-bodied man and some damn crip got in _his _way. So he wielded his cane like a sword, and God help anyone who crossed its path.

_I have a cane and I know how to use it …_

It was all about pride.

Finally Wilson spoke, seeing from House's expression that every anticipated reply had been sorted through and mentally catalogued.

Wilson, however, inserted a zinger of his own:

"Consideration for you and your situation hit me over the head like a ton of bricks the other day when you experienced the breakthrough pain," he said with a sigh.

All the color drained from House's face like a faucet thrown open to its limit. It was the one comeback he had not foreseen. "What the hell is _that _supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything," Wilson continued deadpan. "I don't pity you. Far from it. It was your choice to live as a cripple. You'd be walking pretty normally by now if you'd let them amputate. But you didn't. You chose … this. We crossed that bridge a long time ago. You made your choice and I've supported you as best I could for a lot of years. I've seen you in pain a lot for a long time, House. You know that. I've seen you gasping and trying to hide it. Like the other day. But you'd rather have a flesh-and-blood leg that doesn't work than an artificial one that does.

"My first instinct is always to help out, but I know your need for privacy is greater than your need for someone to offer pity or compassion. I've always chosen to give you space to work through it on your own. If you ever wanted my help, all you had to do was ask.

"You just never asked.

"When you were having the bad time of it the other day, it was the first time I was actually right there to see how bad the pain gets when it's at its worst. It was the first time you _ever_ yelled out to me by name. Sorry House, but you were caught off guard ... and you didscream to me for help.

"That's the _other_ part of 'partly'."

The crease between House's snappish eyes deepened. It was apparent that Wilson's blunt words were the last thing he'd expected. He said nothing, so great was his astonishment.

Wilson shrugged. "I guess that's the difference between what _you_ thought I was going to say … and 'the gospel according to Wilson!' Take it or leave it."

House's excuse was weak. "I didn't know. You could have said something before."

"You wouldn't have allowed me to. You always found a way to stonewall me and go hide away somewhere to be alone. This was the first time you couldn't crawl off into a corner before the pain took over completely.

"You can't unring the bell, House. But make no mistake … what happened in that exam room stays in the exam room." Wilson tapped his forehead conspiratorially. His face then began to crumple with the effort not to laugh.

"What's so funny?!"

"Well ... you don't have to worry about me ever telling anybody I got the fifty cent tour of your ugly bare ass … and all its fuzzy accouterments …"

"Well thanks a whole freakin' heap!"

House straightened in his seat and began to stare intently out the passenger window. He scowled in concentration and became oddly silent. His reflection in the glass sent back an image Wilson thought he would never see on the face of this man.

Contrition.

Wilson left the interstate at the next exit. He parked near the entrance to a small café at the off ramp that specialized in steaks and seafood, and pulled into a 'handicap' space. He set his faded placard at the windshield, and adjusted his pace to match House's difficult gait.

They visited the men's rest room, then were showed to a table and settled in.

They ate in peaceful silence and paid too much attention to the little restaurant's ambiance and rustic decor. They conversed quietly in one and two-word sentences, followed by subdued, overly polite responses.

Neither man knew how or where to take the conversation after what had been said in the car. So they took it nowhere. The atmosphere remained heavy with their unexpressed thoughts.

Wilson finished his water and laid his napkin across his plate. He rose and excused himself to go pay the check.

When he asked House if he was ready to get back on the road, House grunted assent.

In the parking lot, just before they got underway again, House looked toward Wilson's face and squinted briefly through the bright sunlight.

Wilson looked across at him questioning, not sure what to expect.

"Do you still hate me … for what happened to Amber?" House asked.

Wilson paused and sighed. His dimples deepened. "Not so much today yet," he teased. "But the day is young. Why?"

"You know my mom is going to ask embarrassing questions and do all that stuff I hate most, right?"

"She's your _mom_, House. God only knows why, but she loves you exactly the way you are. Even if the rest of the world doesn't."

"She'll tell stupid stories about the old man, and hover over me like I'm a puppy with four broken legs … she'll haul out the old picture albums … and bug me to play the piano …"

"Yup, probably."

"And she'll want to know about the bus accident and about Amber ... and if you're okay now ... and if I'm okay now ... and if _we're _okay now ... and why you left the hospital, then came back ..." House's face darkened and he squinted in the sunlight. "But we're going there anyway, aren't we?"

"Uh huh." Wilson felt a smile breaking through his cautious mood.

"And you keep telling me you don't hate me?"

"Yup."

"'Everybody lies!'"

"Uh huh …"

Fifty miles further on the interstate: "I don't hate you either, Wilson."

Two miles later: "Thanks … but I think I already knew that."

Another mile: "She babies me, dammit."

Two miles later: "You said that before. Twenty seven times, I think."

A pause: "Oh … yeah …"

House leaned forward in the seat and rubbed at the new ache in his thigh. He then leaned back again, adjusted his fingers on the cane and sighed. "My leg hurts like a son of a bitch."

In a few minutes his breathing evened out and deepened.

Wilson kept his eyes on the road. "You probably should have brought the damned crutches along with you," he said under his breath.

65


	11. Chapter 11

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 11

"Stopping-Off Place"

Friday evening,

Somewhere in West Virginia:

Traffic on the interstate was widely spaced and traveling at road-eating speed. Wilson set the cruise control to 70 and relaxed into the back of the seat with his right hand on the wheel and the opposite elbow out the window.

The weather on this late Friday afternoon was deceptively warm for this time of year.

The sky was azure, the mountains in the distance sun-dotted with splashes of gold and silver and looking like the gateway to a magic kingdom. On the horizon though, the first shadows crept across open fields. There were darker clouds competing for dominance with the fluffy white ones. Those that floated past were raggedy and scattered, as if Mother Nature had ridden through the middle on some ghostly steed, tearing out snatches of white and gray and scattering them upon the wind.

Trees rushed past along the side of the highway, thrusting thin bare branches upward

like bony fingers reaching in supplication. Winter was encroaching upon the land with stealthy fingers.

In the passenger seat, Gregory House catnapped. His head swayed gently against the

seat back. One hand lay across his belly and the other one rested lightly on the shaft of his cane where it was propped between seat and door. He was holding on out of habit, Wilson knew, never letting it stray more than a few inches from his reach.

Wilson looked across at his friend from time to time, searching for signs of stress or discomfort and sadly taking note of a tightening in the sharp profile. House seemed ever

older and so much more vulnerable. A fold of loose skin formed a shadow beneath his jaw line attesting to weight he had recently lost, and skin tone he would probably never regain.

Without the fire in those penetrating eyes, Gregg's features lost something vital and commanding in repose. The ridge above his brows, once a bold and attractive feature, looked alarmingly Neanderthal. His long Patrician nose with the tiny upward thrust at the tip, no longer gave an impression of strength and humor. It just looked austere. Wilson knew it stemmed from the pain that never departed for long, and House's constant efforts to hold it at bay.

Wilson sighed and tried to relax, turning his full attention back to the highway. He must soon choose an exit and locate a motel with good, comfortable double beds in double-occupancy rooms … decent television reception.

They were roughly half the distance to Lexington.

Wilson resettled in the driver's seat and buzzed the window shut about five miles further down the highway. Traffic was increasing. Wind was picking up and the outside temperature was beginning to dip.

It was probably the shift in wind velocity as the car slowed; or it may have been the change in road sound when the tires left concrete and crossed onto asphalt at the exit ramp. It could also have been just a matter of instinct. Whatever it was, it woke House with a start, as though he'd been jabbed in the ribs with an elbow.

Wilson glanced across briefly and saw the man's body tense like a coiled spring, and his fingers tighten on the shaft of the cane. The words that came out of his mouth were pure reflex:

"Where are we?" His voice was harsh and dry and grating and demanding. His sleepy calm had fled.

Wilson ignored the challenge he knew was already coloring House's mood. "West Virginia. Have a good nap?"

"Oh yeah ... always …" There was sharp sarcasm in the tone.

"It's past dusk," Wilson continued calmly. "There's a Marriot at this exit, so it may be a good time to stop for the night. Maybe we can get ahead of the rush in time book a good room. One with certain amenities …"

House struggled to sit up, shifting in the seat and hitting the latch that brought the passenger seat slowly upright.

Wilson watched his friend white-knuckle the cane and clamp his jaws together.

"What 'certain amenities'?"

The words were chiseled from granite; spoken as though they had been rifled into stone with a Thompson automatic.

"Easy access, stuff like that … you have a problem with that?"

"You mean 'accommodations for a cripple.'"

Wilson sighed impatiently, grinding his teeth.

"Yeah House. Looked in a mirror lately? Limp … cane … face that's white as a sheet … teeth clamped together like vise-grips? Familiar?"

"Don't patronize me, Wilson. You hijacked my sorry ass for this useless excursion to Ho-Butt country … a trip that can't possibly end well. Don't push it!"

He turned his head in the opposite direction and leaned against the seat, staring out at the world beyond the passenger window. House effectively shut Wilson out.

Wilson guessed they had both suffered enough camaraderie for one day.

They were making good time.

When they had transitioned from 64 West to 79 South near Morgantown, Wilson was beginning to cramp across the shoulders and back, more than ready to park the car. He knew that if he was stiff from the highway, it must be even worse for House.

House, of course, wouldn't be caught dead admitting he was sore enough to confirm Wilson's earlier speculation. Unless, of course, a little whining that would get him something he wanted. He hadn't started that yet, but it was a distinct possibility.

It was coming up on 6:00 p.m. Darkening rapidly now. Clouds loomed larger and grayer and heavier. Wilson stopped at the stop sign and turned right toward the Marriot.

They lucked out.

The big motel was quickly booking up for the night. Local weather reports said snow was headed their way, even though daytime skies had given no indication. Travelers were holing up, choosing to wait it out in case it decided to snow and blow out there. The one unoccupied room on the ground floor was #127, the only one with handicap accessibility, and Wilson scooped it up eagerly. Evidently no one else with a protracted disability was stopping by tonight.

The room was large: two double beds, dresser, chairs with a small writing table, and plenty of room to spread out their overnighters. The bathroom was laid out in a manner Wilson wished House would utilize to renovate his own bathroom in Princeton. There were no slippery surfaces, plenty of sturdy grab bars, and a bathtub-shower with an access door that opened out. He could tell House was looking it over and endeavoring not to appear impressed.

Wilson left the older man sitting on one of the beds and walked toward the door, meaning to return to the car for their luggage.

House watched him balefully, mouth set in a rigid line, eyes mere slits. "Where the hell are you going now?"

Wilson glanced over his shoulder and paused with a hand on the doorknob. He was painfully aware that House had been bristling with disapproval this entire trip, and perhaps rightfully so. He was making his dissatisfaction known with every drawn

breath.

Wilson admitted that it might have been lousy timing to drag him on a road trip when he was in extra pain. Truth be told though, even if Wilson waited until House regained his best mobility, the stubborn ass wouldn't be caught dead visiting his mother while his estranged father, so recently deceased, still factored into the equation.

Wilson bit down on his lip for an instant, then replied with a flippant snip of sarcasm that he had not intended to sound so impatient. "I'm tired of your attitude, House. I'm going out for our luggage and taking a break from you!"

"You should be used to me by now. You yanked me off on a trip I didn't want to go on to see somebody I don't want to see."

"Fine. Sit there and sulk. I'm going out for dinner, a steak, a drink and a movie. Lock up before you go to bed."

Wilson opened the door and stalked out, letting it thump closed behind him.

_What the hell possessed me to say that?_

He did not see House's body slump forward, or the translucent lids drop slowly over slits of blue. He walked quickly down the carpeted hallway toward the lobby.

House was disoriented for a moment until his tired mind figured out that Wilson's angry reply had been little more than road fatigue. He thought briefly of ways to smooth things over when Wilson got back.

He let his chin drop to his chest. His arms slid down until they dangled at his sides. He sat still and tried not to think. Finally he took a deep breath and looked up again long enough to stare at the closed door with a vague twinge of regret. Then he turned slightly on the edge of the bed and reached for his cane. Maybe a hot shower would calm him and make his brain stop turning angry somersaults …

Methodically he began to peel off his clothing. He discarded everything in a heap on the floor. His sore hip ached dully. His leg, surprisingly, was quiet, and by some miracle he did not feel a desperate need for Vicodin.

He sat naked and exposed, thin body dotted with gooseflesh. Slowly he looked around. The room was loaded with Marriot Hotel "amenities", as Wilson had called them. State-of-the-art handicap accommodations in this suite must have cost Wilson a fortune. House felt a momentary twinge of remorse for his earlier outburst. His friend had done nothing to deserve another lashing from his forked tongue.

Ever since the infarction years before, Wilson always positioned himself to look out for his acerbic colleague. He'd never let on that he was doing that, but House always knew. James seldom intruded upon House's personal space unless invited to do so, which was never. And then House had insistently challenged him about the "partly" thing and received an earful. His friend's revealing remarks about crippledness and amputation had struck a nerve within him. He'd had no idea that Wilson felt that way. It had rattled him more than he realized.

He grasped the curve of his cane, preparing to stand. Slowly and painfully he rose to his feet and took a lurching step away from the bed, pausing to catch his breath.

House was sore, but that was mostly due to protracted inactivity. He maneuvered toward the bathroom, opened the door, eased himself inside and reclosed it. He turned on the bath water and adjusted for heat. He stepped in, sat down on the built-in bench and flipped up the lever for the shower.

Cascades of water as hot as he could stand it streamed across his aching body. He lowered his head and reveled in the sensual pleasure of hot water cascading over his scalp and running in wonderful rivulets behind his ears and off the end of his nose and chin. Clouds of fragrant steam rose from the composition floor and enveloped him in a warm cocoon of something nearing rapture. He luxuriated in it, unmindful and unaware of everything else in the world.

Wilson returned with their luggage twenty minutes later. He was chilled to the bone.

He set the suitcases down and looked around. House was not there, but his tee shirt and sweatpants were. Huge snowflakes lay on Wilson's head and shoulders. He shook it onto the carpet and hung up his coat. He heard water running in the bathroom.

When he knocked softly on the connecting door there was a small smile on his face.

"House? You okay in there?"

"Yah. Must have been some really lousy food at that restaurant you went to. And a short damn movie. You don't sound very drunk …"

"Don't overdo it, House!" Wilson warned.

"What? You say something?"

"I said I ordered pizza and beer."

"I figured you might."

"House?"

"Whaaat?"

"Uh … I'm cold … and it's kind'a snowing out there. Could you hurry-the-hell up?"

"You need to shut your pie hole, okay? You're getting on my last nerve …"

_*Pause*_

"Sorry …"

"No you're not. Get your ass in here and reach me a towel!"

71


	12. Chapter 12

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 12

"Setting the Woods on Fire"

Saturday morning,

January 17:

A string of profanity that would have done a longshoreman justice drifted loudly through the bathroom doorway. The blue barrage of expletives caught Wilson with a razor full of shaving cream scraped halfway down his chin. He flicked it into the washbowl.

_Now what?_

Bath towel wrapped around his waist, James opened the door and stuck his head around the jamb. House sat in the middle of the bed, struggling to tie his sneakers over socks that were bunched and wrinkled.

"... bitch!"

"Did you say something?" The humor in the oncologist's voice was muffled a little; spoken through a mouth ringed with white foam. It sometimes seemed as though he spent half his life wondering what House was ranting about, and why. This time the reason was apparent. His bad leg refused to bend far enough to enable him to reach his foot, and the bruised hip complicated the problem even further.

"You heard me. I can't tie my damn shoelaces because my freaking knee won't bend, and neither will my ass." House looked across to the bathroom doorway in frustrated anger. He required assistance, but after recent events, was even more determined not to ask.

Silence reigned for a moment. Wilson had retreated back into the bath to finish shaving. The less said about House's shoe-and-sock problem, he thought, the better. All he needed first thing this morning was to get involved in another argument over why it was a lousy idea to drag House's 'crippled ass on another road trip' … and on and on and on …

Aloud, he said nothing. Whispering to himself, his tongue slid over sibilant 'S' sounds.

"Ya hear me, Wilson? I said …"

"Yeah … I heard what you said." There came the noise of spitting, a throat clearing and a quick rush of water into the sink.

"Well?"

"'Well' what?"

"I'm waiting for the condescending lecture."

"Not gonna happen. Figure out how to do it yourself. If you can't reach your foot in front of you, then pull it backwards over your shoulder and tie your shoelace like a necktie. Either that or be quiet and wait for me to finish in here. I'll help you."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Wasn't _that _a swell way to tell a cripple to …"

"I would have bet the word 'cripple' would figure into the conversation soon, House. You always manage to dangle that word in the air in front of me every time you run yourself into a wall."

There was another pause, which lengthened into stony silence. Calmly, Wilson wiped the remaining shave cream from his face and skated both palms over the smoothness. He then reached up and scrubbed his fingers vigorously through his damp hair. Finally he walked out of the bathroom in tee shirt and boxer briefs.

House was still sitting on the bed, fully clothed in loose-fit jeans and tee shirt, still trying to resolve his issue with socks and shoes. Wilson took one look and chuckled. He watched with hands on hips for a moment, and then walked to his overnighter to choose a pair of jeans and a sport shirt. "You still need to clean up your mess from last night," he remarked, "but it looks like you got things pretty much under control out here. You didn't need me after all."

"Sure. Piece of cake," barked House. His anger escaped from between his teeth like the warning hiss of a snake.

Wilson, leaning over his suitcase, rounded on his friend with equal venom. "Listen to me!" He said. "Your attitude stinks. I know your leg hurts and your hip is sore. I saw it firsthand last Monday and I'm not likely to forget. But you can't sit on your rear end and be waited on indefinitely. You don't want to go back on crutches, do you? Or do you? I suggest you stop with the theatrics and get your butt in gear. It's time!"

House sat still, half in shock, and stared at his friend's back. This was a Wilson he got to see very seldom.

House was silent for so long that Wilson finally turned around to see whether the man was building up to a tirade. But the blue eyes were wide with astonishment for the second day in a row.

Wilson straightened. "You pissed me off."

"I deserved that," House admitted. His head was lowered and thrust to the side with what looked like embarrassment. "I'm used to using anger to get my way. Guess I forgot it shouldn't be like this between the two of us. So yeah … I need to get some strength back in my leg. I'm having a really lousy time just moving it."

There was another pause. House had just offered what was, for him, a heartfelt apology.

"We okay?"

Wilson's face softened. He did not answer the question directly, but instead bent to pick up the clothing that still lay strewn on the floor. "You've compromised your gluteus maximus and traumatized the gluteal ridge. Your leg went downhill with it."

House's head snapped up. "Was that a joke?"

"Nope, not a joke. An observation. Just telling you what I saw when I examined you on Monday."

"You're through bitching at me?"

"Probably not …"

Wilson placed House's dirty clothes on the bed and retreated across the room to pull on

a pair of jeans and step into socks and hard-sole moccasins. He looked over at the other man appraisingly. House had managed tee shirt and jeans somehow, but the right sneaker was still untied and the pants, hanging off his skinny ass, weren't zipped. "Wouldn't do me any good to bitch. You have selective hearing." He walked back to House's side and made quick work of tying his shoe, ignoring the bunched sock.

"Thanks …"

"My pleasure ..."

Wilson massaged his scalp vigorously again with the tips of his long fingers. His hair was almost dry: thick and lustrous and all flyaway. He crossed the room for the third time and sat down again on the other bed, pushing heaped blankets out of the way.

House stared at him silently and Wilson could almost hear the whir of little gears in his friend's head. Sighing dramatically, House eased both legs off the edge of the bed.

"How'd you sleep last night?"

House's eyes darted away. The question had caught him unprepared. "I dunno … I wasn't awake long enough to check it out …" His mouth contorted into a childish bow of one-upmanship. He had to win at least _one_.

Wilson rolled his eyes.

House grinned. They were back in mutual territory for the time being. Both men retreated into a silent status quo that neither cared to disturb.

Wilson remained quiet as he concentrated on repacking their bags, straightening the room and getting ready for departure. Internally, however, he was alert. He did not question further, but he _watched. _He watched with his hearing, and with the hairs that stood at attention on both forearms. He watched with his _skin_.

House wore a navy blue tee-shirt with "Everybody Lies" emblazoned across the front. _That, _Wilson thought, declared a stroke of irony that described his friend's social attitude perfectly.

When he straightened again from his "all-feelers-out-but-not-watching" mode, he was just in time to see the other man flop backward on the bed. House had finally had his fill of "macho".

Wilson cleared his throat. "Sore, huh?"

House's eyes narrowed. "Don't worry about it!"

Wilson shrugged. "Not worried. It's your own business." His smile was disarming, and the laugh lines on his handsome face deepened. "I'm just hazarding a guess that you put your right sock on backwards on purpose. And you're getting too fat to pull your pants all the way up to cover your ass …"

"Screw you, Wilson!" The blue eyes popped with menace, but there was no anger in the tone.

Wilson shrugged. "Y'know what? You're buying breakfast. But before we leave, would you like me to straighten your sock and zip your zipper?"

"_Screw you!"_

Wilson decided that, in "House-speak", it meant:_ "Yes, please" _and _ "thank you ..."_

75


	13. Chapter 13

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 13

"Searching for the Master"

Saturday, January 17.

Lexington, Kentucky

He circled the fence, nose to the ground, body gleaming in the sun and tail lifted behind him like a silken scarf in the breeze. Every day for the past three months he had made this circle, and every day John's scent faded a little more until finally it was gone. The winds had diminished it and the rain and snow had diminished it until there was nothing left of the stern man who had been his master.

Baxter halted in the front corner of the yard and sat down, ears like semaphores, nostrils flaring, scanning the street for every car that passed or slowed or pulled to the curb and stopped. None of them reverberated like the sound of the big pickup truck that told him John was home.

Baxter never gave up. Never walked away from the puzzle or let it fade into the past. Every morning he stationed himself there. Waiting. Hoping. Only to be disappointed again. Only to go back in the house and lie on the old recliner where John's familiar scent still clung to the cushions.

_Dogs don't know about death. But they do know about grief. They mourn the absence, and they experience the painful empty places where their masters used to dwell. And _

_they understand the altered aura of the mistress who also feels that absence. Dogs are creatures of feeling. They can't discern where the master has gone … or why the mistress seems so different._

Blythe left him back inside at noon. His dog food stood untouched in the bowl. He circled the kitchen a few times, sniffing for the man who wasn't there; searching for the smell of John's cigars. Searching for anything of John. But there was nothing.

"He's not here, Bax," Blythe said softly. The words were becoming a litany, more to comfort and assure herself than the dog. Baxter turned from his search to walk over to her, lifting his whiskery muzzle by her knee as she stood at the counter quartering potatoes and onions into a large bowl, remembering that her son had once loved them cooked in a Dutch oven that way.

Gregory would be here in a few hours: he and his friend James.

Blythe placed the paring knife on the granite countertop and wiped her hands on the tea towel she had a habit of hanging over one shoulder. "It will be okay someday, boy," she told him. "One of these days we'll both go to the place where he is, and you'll see him again. In the meantime we'll just have to do this together."

His cold wet nose lifted beneath her hand, seeking a caress, a moment of the attention

he craved that he never had to beg for with John. Blythe bent to him, cupping his furry face between her hands, feeling the delicate tip of his tongue as he showed his affection the only way he knew.

Mistress did not play games or roughhouse with him on the living room rug. But her gentle fingers imparted a message he needed to sustain him in the blank spaces of his doggie loneliness.

It was enough for now. He left her then, walked over to his bowl and began to crunch the food she had placed there for him earlier that morning.

Blythe took the bowl of potatoes and onions to the sink. She washed her hands and ran cold water over the chunks to remove excess starch. "Gregg is coming, Bax. Do you remember Gregg? You saved his life a long time ago, before you came to live with us. You and he were friends before you were friends with John. Tonight you'll get to see Gregg again. And James. Would you like that, Baxter?"

The dog looked up from his bowl and wagged his tail. The words, of course, had no meaning, but the tone was warm and friendly, and he bathed his heart with them. He lifted his eyes to her face and chuffed in ascent.

Blythe laughed softly and watched as he returned to his meal. Maybe he was thinking visitors in the house would bathe her heart too. And sustain her soul. She had so missed her tall handsome son; this caustic and brilliant doctor to whom she had given birth so long ago.

Blythe knew Gregory was not coming here of his own volition. He was being dragged, kicking and screaming by his friend, the gentle-madman-oncologist who chose Gregg's company over others who did not. James and Gregg were like one entity in two bodies.

Gregg was the head and James the heart. She smiled, thinking with deep affection of the two of them together: Penn and Teller; Siegfried and Roy; Alexander and Hephaestion.

Fried chicken, oven-roasted potatoes and onions and sweet corn, prepared with love and motherly pride for the two men who were now the most important people populating her narrowing world. Blythe House looked up at the kitchen clock, calculating in her head the time when they were most likely to arrive. It was almost one o'clock now. They would be here close to five. They would be tired and road weary, and Gregg would undoubtedly be sore and in considerable pain. She must remember not to hover.

There was beer still on tap, the remains of John's last keg, and a variety of other potables in the liquor cabinet. It should be an interesting evening. She hoped they would be up to enjoying it.

The Volvo was headed a little southwest on Route 64, the last leg to Lexington. Wilson had called Blythe fifteen minutes earlier and told her they were about an hour out, depending on traffic. She'd told him to take his time, dinner was warming in the oven and there was no hurry.

House's head was laid back against the seat again, his face toward the door; probably catnapping ... or pretending to. Wilson closed his phone and stuck it in his shirt pocket.

"She all giddy and excited that we're almost there?"

"What?"

Wilson looked across at the other man briefly. House was not asleep. His tousled head rolled left across the seat as he peered owlishly at his companion. His eyes were hollow, mouth turned down at the corners. His hands were in his lap, cane between his legs, whitened knuckles forming a bony ridge around it.

"I _said … _is she giddy and excited about us coming?" The tone was barely civil.

Wilson shrugged, choosing not to acknowledge that House was stiff in his seat, body twisted and tight. The pillow that cushioned his hip was flattened, probably more of a hindrance than a comfort.

In his peripheral vision, he saw House reach to his jeans pocket for Vicodin, the first

time he'd actually caught him at it since they'd left the motel. House pried off the top and upended the vial into his cupped palm, preventing Wilson from actually counting the number of pills he was taking. When he dry-swallowed, Wilson knew it was more than one. He said nothing, knowing House was silently daring him to make a comment.

He dismissed it, keeping things low key, lest the conversation blow up without warning. "Not really," he said finally. "Maybe excited to see you, but 'giddy' certainly isn't the word I'd use. She said she just put dinner in the oven to keep warm and we could take our time getting there. I have the exact directions to the house in my jacket pocket. You can read them off to me when we get a little closer …"

"Eating is not that high on my list of priorities right now," House said peevishly. "I have all I can do to keep the lights from going out."

"Feeling sick?" Wilson tried to keep it light. Maybe he could cajole House into lightening up and relaxing his body to let the pain loosen on its own.

"All over," House complained. He shifted in the seat again, turning almost sideways

to bend in the middle and hug his stomach. Wilson knew he was not kidding.

"Want to take a breather? I can pull off at the next rest stop."

"Yeah."

Wilson waited for the other man to step out of the car and straighten, holding the door while House hopped around to find balance and loosen his stiff muscles.

Curious glances from other travelers nearby galled him, and House glared daggers into their midst. None of them could hold his cold, hard stare for more than a few seconds. A man so lame that he could barely walk seemed to disgust them and turn them away from coming too close, lest his affliction rub off upon them.

Wilson decided, rightly so, that the curious stares did wonders to galvanize House in his efforts to shore himself up and flaunt his disability in their faces. Wilson stood still and did not comment. This was House's field of battle, not his. He would intervene only if House were threatened in some way.

They took their time in the rest room and at the vending machines. House munched chips he didn't want, and gulped a soda. He'd always admitted that sodas made him belch like hell. He wasn't kidding. He stood beside the machine, grinning in sardonic triumph, belching long and loud, an action that caused onlookers to give him an even wider berth.

By the time House made it back to the car, his queasy stomach had stabilized and the heavy Vicodin dose had kicked in. His equilibrium returned to the point that he was becoming adept at the new balancing act.

When they got underway again, House was able to sit up straight and banish the pillow to the back seat. He could look out the window and actually observe the countryside, not just the front of his tee shirt or the insides of his own eyelids.

James Wilson felt better too.

When he turned the car onto the proper exit into Lexington, House looked across and studied the familiar profile of his chauffeur. He saw the familiar laugh lines deepen and knew Wilson was waiting for him to say something.

"Thanks ... for the break ..."

Wilson grinned, feeling as though House were suddenly showering him with praise. He knew it was nothing of the sort, but he couldn't deny his pleasure in hearing it.

"You're welcome. You got your cookies off pissing people off back there, didn't you?" He dug in the pocket of his jacket and held out the piece of paper on which were written the street directions to the residence of Mrs. Blythe House.

House's grin was answer enough as he took the note and squinted at the deplorable handwriting. Facetiously he turned it around and around in his hands. "Looks like a doctor's handwriting … equally undecipherable from all angles."

Wilson followed the directions carefully as House read them off, and it was only a short time until they pulled up in front of the brick house with the fenced-in yard. He swung the steering wheel to the right and pulled into the driveway, all the way up to parallel the roofed-in back porch with a wheelchair ramp.

As Blythe had suggested that he do.

Within the house they could hear a dog barking …

80


	14. Chapter 14

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 14

"Return of the Master"

Lexington,

January 17:

She couldn't stop herself from humming. Her heart was beating like it was skipping Double Dutch inside her chest. How wonderful to feel this way!

Fresh out of the shower, she dried herself quickly and then scrubbed through her damp hair with the towel. It would take only a few minutes for it to dry. Her new shortened hairstyle … no more peroxide-blonde dye jobs … was turning grey quickly now ... and looked pleasing framing her face as she viewed herself in the mirror. Very different from what she'd been used to.

The loss of ten pounds hadn't hurt either.

Blythe House leaned across the basin and studied her image with critical scrutiny. She'd been twenty-something when Gregg was born, and now at sixty-nine-plus, she realized time had treated her kindly. Lines denoting the passage of years were deeply ingrained into some areas of her body, but her skin was clear and unmarked, except for the roadmaps and river deltas at her eyes, mouth and chin. Her lustrous hazel-green eyes twinkled back at her with a healthy glow from the depths of the mirror.

She straightened, touched her lips lightly with gloss and added a single puff of Wind Song. It was the only form of makeup she used these days. It was time to stop defying Mother Nature and give in to the process of growing old gracefully. John's death had finally released her to do exactly as she pleased. She'd even begun to wear tee shirts, blue jeans and sneakers; just like Gregory had been doing for years. Her son was a free spirit, not a fashion plate. She liked that and decided to follow his example.

While John was alive she would not allow herself to stray far from the old ways. When they were first married, military officers' wives had certain standards to uphold, and Blythe did so willingly as part of the deal. It was expected. For many years she knew

no other way, and she was certainly no pioneer.

While she was busy being wife and mother and wasn't paying all that much attention to anything else, time had gotten away from her. The Viet Nam war brought sweeping social changes she could barely keep up with.

Within a few short years she began to observe a certain cadre of younger women taking leave of the time-worn military traditions; defying old customs and settling their children into daycare in order to pursue careers of their own. It alarmed her at first. Gregg was still very young then, and he was a handful. She kept doing what she'd always done and sat back while the women of the '60s kicked over the traces. One day she began to realize that military housing was beginning to teem with nannies.

Blythe had always earned extra money teaching piano to military children and bored housewives with no outside outlets. Securing a job of her own off-base never occurred to her. John would have nipped it in the bud … or at least tried to. It wasn't right in his point of view that a woman should have to work outside the home. It was his sole, sacred responsibility to take care of his family, just as it had always been with his father and grandfather before him. John was the breadwinner. Therefore, John was boss. His wife never disputed it with him.

Now he was gone, swept away by death and time and an ever-changing landscape.

The last year of his retirement was spent in failing health, waning strength and sullen silences. They walked on eggs around each other, neither of them speaking out about anything that might rattle the marbles. If she appeared too solicitous, he would bellow

in anger. If she did not, he would ask what she had a "hard-on" about. She couldn't

win. Blythe avoided him by moving from one household chore to another.

The house was spotless, as always, but few old friends dropped by to visit anymore and no one came by for piano lessons. John ceased caring for the yard and no longer played with Baxter. He slacked off on household trifles. His big silver pickup truck gathered dust in the garage. Blythe hired out the yard work and other maintenance chores. John blanketed himself in macho pride and sat in his recliner staring at the television with the dog at his feet.

Cable Channels ran old military documentaries, and most days she heard the gravelly voice of R. Lee Ermy … "Gunny" … over and over until she could have pulled out her hair and screamed. But she didn't.

_Semper_ (freaking)_ Fi! _

Early one morning, Blythe hurried downstairs to the tune of Baxter's nervous whining.

It was a shock, but not a surprise, to find John face down in the middle of the kitchen floor. She didn't have to go near him to know he was dead. He'd probably felt ill in the night and come downstairs for meds. Perhaps he'd had a premonition. It was a heart attack, she suspected, and it had taken him swiftly.

The funeral for "Colonel Blackjack House" had been a ritualistic, solemn affair. The entire two days of formal ceremony had been a pompous ballet of stiff posturing, stern

glares and gleaming gold braid. There had been a cadre of old military types doing what she had always laughingly called 'walking-parade-rest' … old farts stumbling around with their hands locked stiffly behind their backs. It had been made bearable only by the black humor of the glass-shattering argument between her son and his best friend in the next viewing parlor. Gregg had said something atrocious and James had thrown a fit over it.

That same gentle James Wilson threw a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon through a stained glass window …

She still smiled at the memory when an outraged group of old friends from John's former airborne wing hurried from their chairs and rushed into the other room at the sound of breaking glass. There were taut expressions of embarrassment plastered on the faces of two grown men standing across from the disintegrated window where the sun shone through like an admonition from God.

Blythe walked from the bathroom into the big bedroom she'd shared with her husband. On the wall opposite their bed a bank of dark walnut shelves stood empty. All John's USMC commendation medals and ribbons, an old flag folded three-corner in a walnut frame, and his sword and rifle and handgun, were packed away in boxes now. All those shiny things he'd treasured from his airborne days, as well as his sleek flight uniform and service cover were in storage on the chance that Gregory might someday choose to claim them.

Blythe dressed quickly in soft jeans, dark blue tee shirt with chickadees on the front, and grey socks with grey sneakers.

Quietly she closed the bedroom door behind her, listening to the latch click home. On this day in particular, it felt as though she were closing the pages on a volume of history and maybe opening a new one. Her husband had gone somewhere else now, but her son would be arriving soon.

She went down to the kitchen, counting every familiar stair step as though she had never traversed them before. Baxter sat sentinel by the back door, and the chicken in the oven wafted its delectable aroma through the entire downstairs. She opened the oven door and checked the chicken, stuck a fork into the potatoes, stirred the corn. Ready to eat anytime.

Blythe closed the oven and lowered the temp to keep it warm. She walked into the living room and paused in the middle of the gleaming hardwood floor. All around her were memories of years past.

The big console TV, a remnant of the early 80s and nested in its heavy wooden cabinet, crouched like a behemoth in the corner. Everywhere they went John had insisted on dragging it along. Her 1949 Baldwin spinet, untouched for months, stood directly across the room from it. The couch, piled with elegant pillows, was huge and grand and Navy blue. Two side chairs in faded blue brocade, matched exactly.

John's recliner, however, was a deep burgundy composite material trimmed in matching Naugahyde. It had a dark cigarette burn on one arm. She smiled, remembering his words when he bought it: 'Fine Corinthian leather', according to Ricardo Montalban in the commercial. One of John's favorite jokes. Like the upholstery of the 1976 Chrysler Cordoba in the commercial ... there was no such thing.

On the walls, photographs of the family. Gregg's first portrait: two teeth, big smile. Later, eleven years old, at the piano, already composing music. High school graduation portrait, lopsided grin and definitely too big for his britches. College graduation picture in which he purposely mugged at the camera. Hers and John's wedding photograph, both of them smiling for posterity; she in white satin, he in civvies. It was the day before he'd enlisted in the Marine Corps.

Their Thirtieth Anniversary portrait, in an ornate frame on the piano, was a little more sedate. Her dress was light blue, her hair shoulder-length, and John was a just-promoted Bird Colonel. Beside it, the brand new Dr. Gregory House wore a look of smug-faced satisfaction as he proudly displayed his coveted M. D. certificate. He was still clean-shaven then, and his hair was the color of chestnuts in the sun. Such a handsome young man.

There was only one photograph of her son after the infarction left him a cripple. He would not allow his infirmity to show, and he was no longer college-boy handsome. In his forties, Dr. House was already aging ungracefully. His narrow jaw sported greying stubble, and his thin face was creased with pain lines that no amount of photo-studio lighting could hide. He was photographed in a plain blue dress suit, in a straight-back chair in front of a plain beige wall. His sturdy wooden crutches had been placed out of the camera's range by a photographer's assistant.

Blythe turned reluctantly. The entire accumulation of frumpery in this room was ancient history now. One of these days she would have most of it removed from the house and replaced. John would never have parted with anything, but he was no longer around to present an argument. It was way past time for catching up with the twenty first century.

Baxter lifted his cold wet nose beneath her hand. Blythe looked down at him and stroked his silky coat. Then she walked slowly back into the kitchen. The boys would probably enjoy a fresh pot of coffee when they arrived ...

... or a cold beer.

"_The times, they are a-changin' …"_

oooooo

"Take a left off the exit," House intoned, reading verbatim from the scrap of notepaper

in his hand. "Go to the red light and make another left. Continue one mile to stop sign and turn right. Third house on the right-hand side. Brick Cape Cod with fenced-in yard. Pull into driveway and park beside back door. Got that?"

Across from him, Wilson nodded. "Yeah. Were you _never_ to this house before? At all? Not even once? To visit your _parents?"_

"Jesus, Wilson! I get the point! Yeah I was there. Once. About the same time Christ got promoted to Colonel. Anything else you want to know?"

"Well, for one, how come you don't remember how to get there?"

"Because it was fifteen years ago. The old man was freshly retired; they'd just bought the place. Stacy talked me into it. I wanted to come down here like I wanted a boil on my ass. She said I 'owed 'em that much ...'"

"And you didn't think so?" Wilson, keeping close watch on the road, felt a twinge of skepticism.

"Hell no! But Stacy was just about impossible to deny. You know what I mean … she would bitch and carry on until I gave in. So we got in the car and drove down here."

"She came along?"

"Yeah she came along. No rest in her ass 'til I agreed. I told you all this years ago. I guess she figured I'd probably head in the opposite direction if she didn't ride shotgun. She charmed the piss out of the old man, but I'm still not sure what Mom thought of her. Don't think she was much impressed."

"Your mother doesn't strike me as being too easily impressed by anything. Did she say something to you?"

"Who? Mom? Nah. She was politically correct long before it all turned into a contest. It was just a feeling I had."

Wilson braked the Volvo, slowed to a crawl and looked around at the street and the quiet suburban neighborhood. They were near the street light. Late afternoon sunlight glared off the dirty windshield. He pulled down the visor. "Which way from here?" He asked.

House squinted at the paper in his hand. "Left again and go a mile … give or take."

"Okay." Wilson started forward, accelerating gradually. His eyes narrowed to slits as his brain worked overtime.

"Yeah, I knew the trip was going to be a disaster from the start. And it was. Don't ask. I don't wanna talk about it."

House was squirming in his seat, canting to the left, clamming up. For the second time Wilson saw him pull out the Vicodin bottle and remove the lid with a pop. How many pills this time? He still couldn't be sure.

When the odometer had ticked off a mile, Wilson slowed and glanced around. They were on a mostly wooded road, semi-rural. Houses were widely spaced, lawns meticulously manicured.

In the distance he could see a group of long, low barns off to the left, surrounded by

well-maintained white fences. Thoroughbred country. From this distance the animals appeared small, but they were certainly race horses in shaggy winter coats.

Then he saw the stop sign. "Is this where we make the right?"

House leaned forward, wincing. "That's what it says," he grumbled. "Third house on the right."

"Okay." Wilson swung the wheel to the right and cruised slowly past two white houses with landscaped lawns and large trees, and white mailboxes on white posts with large black numbers painted on the sides. He was a little concerned about House's almost total lack of bitching and also the unusual lack of whining about pain.

House's face was completely without expression. His head was lowered, but he was casing the neighborhood from beneath hooded lashes, and there was a dark determined gleam in his eyes.

Suddenly Wilson understood.

House was gearing up to face the end of this journey; maybe even looking forward to seeing his mother. He'd been angry and defensive at the Colonel's funeral, and things had not gone well. Now he had another chance to make it good. Wilson hoped House would give it a shot and perhaps open up to the one woman in the world who loved him unconditionally.

"There!" House pointed suddenly to the right. His voice was low and gravelly.

Wilson dared to hope this trip would be the means of forging new pathways.

In a way he had played on House's conscience, chipping away gradually at his friend's sensibilities. Wilson had even suggested that the colonel's death might mean House's mother may not have too many productive years left either.

If House wanted to allow her to love him the way mothers are wont to love their children, then he must not withhold from her that to which mothers were forever entitled.

The house was brick. It had shutters of lustrous hunter green bordered with white trim, and stood out in contrast to the others in this austere neighborhood. It was surrounded by white paling fence made impenetrable with a weave of chicken wire. Baxter-proofed. It was lined by tall grasses, now wintery brown. There were pine trees and oaks and maples, and a myriad of low bushes that festooned the lower section of the house so that it quite interestingly resembled a giant Rhode Island Red hen on her nest.

The most striking thing about it was the all-wood, slate-roofed back porch with a hand-made railing that led up a smooth, wide wheelchair ramp. There was also a grip-rail on each side, very 'handicap accessible'. Nothing fancy. Just a low-profile personal accommodation.

Wilson pulled in and parked. He looked across at House at the same instant House looked across at him, and a moment of mutual understanding passed between them.

Blythe was at the door, Baxter beside her, and the dog barked a warning and a welcome at the same time. Then they both burst out to greet their visitors. She hurried down to open the car door and soon her son wobbled out of the car and into her arms.

As she stroked his hair, House noticed she was not crying. She was smiling. He sighed with relief.

Wilson went around to the back of the car and opened the hatch. Baxter padded beside him, panting eagerly, thrusting his curious muzzle into Wilson's palms. Wilson gave him a friendly pat. "Do you remember us, Bax?"

Then the big dog circled around to House, sniffing at a pantleg, poking his cold wet nose at Gregg's hand. Baxter thrust his long snout between Gregg and his mother, pushing forward eagerly and excitedly; whining in a manner that sounded very much like a human child.

His body trembled.

_The master has come home …_

Blythe backed away carefully while Gregg shifted his body and rebalanced on his cane. "It's okay, Mom … I won't break."

Wilson grabbed their bags and turned around with a tentative grin. "Hello James. I'm so happy to see you smiling again after that silly incident at the funeral home." The corners of her mouthy curled upward coyly.

Wilson had the grace to look embarrassed, but when she began to laugh, he relaxed. "We won't speak of that again, will we?"

"Oh … we might …"

She stepped up and held the back door open, waiting until both men were safely inside. "There's fresh coffee to warm you up … or cold beer to cool you down if you'd rather. Dinner is ready."

House looked at her in silent appraisal. "A strong hot cup of coffee sounds wonderful.

"You look good, Mom, by the way. Kinda hot, actually. In this particular case, 'death' becomes you." He smirked while Blythe scowled. "When did you have the fancy porch put in?"

Blythe blushed a little. "Thank you … but you shouldn't be disrespectful, dear. Coffee it is. Your father built the porch, I'll have you know, some years back ... just in case. He would be pleased to see you've finally made the time to use it."

House looked at her, a little apologetic … but said nothing.

James Wilson sighed in appreciation and nodded.

They were home.

88


	15. Chapter 15

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 15

"Bedtime Stories"

January 17

Evening:

Politely he asked "Mrs. House" to pass the butter.

Demurely she lowered her eyes as she granted his request and handed it across to him. When their fingers touched near the bottom of the dish, he flinched as he saw her slight smile of indulgence.

Wilson's eyes shifted to House's for a brief moment across the table, and the single raised eyebrow told him he'd guessed right. Whatever was about to happen, House would lord it over him for weeks.

"James, dear …"

He looked up inquiringly, his own eyebrows on the rise.

"James … we've known each other for years. Can't we dispense with the formalities? 'Mrs. House' was okay while John was alive. But now he's not. 'Mrs. House' makes me feel like a doddering old woman, and I don't want to go there yet. I would love it if you'd just call me 'Blythe'. I've considered you part of the family for quite a long time. Would you be okay with that?"

While her eyes lingered on his, James Wilson felt a little like a mouse poised in front of

a trap: wonderful things inside, but dangers in the taking. He heard a subvocal snort from the opposite side of the table and groaned inwardly. He was, indeed, flattered. He searched her face for any hint of patronizing, and found none. She regarded him with clear eyes. He dropped his head and lowered the butter dish to the table. "I'd like that, Blythe."

Then, as an afterthought, he added: "That sounds … kind of awkward."

She smiled and patted the back of his hand. "You'll get used to it."

Quickly she changed the subject, veering abruptly away from James' embarrassment and concentrating on her son. Gregg's eyes were downcast too as he trailed his fork through his potatoes. He'd polished off two cups of coffee, two drumsticks and a thigh earlier. The potatoes and corn had filled him to overflowing. He hoped he would not regret it. He sat clumsily in his chair and she knew he was sore. She also saw James' eyes move

to his left, picking up on signals that passed like radar between them.

Beneath the table, Baxter laid patiently with his muzzle on his forepaws, all senses alert, waiting for some morsel to drop. Now and then he would sigh in resignation. Nothing had hit the floor.

Blythe pushed back her chair and stood up. "I have banana crème pie for dessert," she said. "But we can always save it for later if you'd like …"

Gregg nodded as though relieved of some burden. "Thanks, Mom. That was delicious, but I'm full."

He was tired from the road and in pain. He needed medication and time to rest a lot more than he needed dessert and guarded conversation.

James was draining the last of his own coffee, waiting for a clue what to do next.

Blythe accommodated. "Let me show you to your quarters," she began, and then stopped abruptly, laughing. "Sorry. Military jargon sticks with you all your life. What I meant is, if you follow me, I have your room set up down the hall." She waited, appraising their rumpled clothing and tired faces.

Wilson gathered the overnighters and walked along beside her. House followed silently behind. Trailing at a distance, Baxter ambled down the hallway that branched off the kitchen. His doggy toenails clacked a syncopated rhythm that sounded like someone lightly tap dancing on the hardwood floor.

Blythe approached a door on the right that opened into a large, comfortable area with a no-nonsense Pergo carpet. She flipped the light switch and the room lit up brightly. There were two double beds with heavy, dark green comforters. Matching brown plush recliners were arranged opposite the beds, and a table with a tall lamp stood between them in front of a picture window on the front wall. Hunter green draperies were drawn back to reveal the surrounding neighborhood through white Venetian blinds. In the darkness, the only things visible outside were deep shadows and a distant street lamp at least a block away.

Looking around, Gregg whistled lowly through his teeth. "Niiice. I'd forgotten about this room."

A flat-screen TV lurked darkly in one corner. House made for one of the chairs, moving with effort, and sank into the closest one with a grunt of relief. He looked across at the TV with interest. A welcome distraction.

Beside the TV was another door. Blythe walked across and opened it, flicked on the light. A large, well-appointed bathroom with soaker tub and separate shower made both men's eyes widen. She smiled. "Nice, isn't it?"

She turned off the light and came out again. "The people who built this place in the eighties had two kids and a live-in Nanny. This was her private suite. John and I never used it, but we furnished it anyway. I didn't want you to have to climb the stairs, Gregg, so I spruced things up a little for the two of you back here. I hope you'll be comfortable. You're both welcome here as long as you can possibly stay."

Blythe House placed her hand on the hallway doorknob. "Please make yourselves at home, my dears," she said pleasantly. "The door across from the bathroom is the closet. You can stash your luggage there if you wish ... and if you need anything, I'll be in the kitchen awhile longer ..."

"Mom?"

She turned. "Yes, Gregg?"

"C'mere …"

She hesitated a moment, then walked over and knelt beside the chair. "What, dear?"

He leaned toward her and kissed her discreetly on the cheek. "Thanks, Mom …"

"You are certainly welcome, darling. Get some rest. You must both be exhausted." She rose again to her feet, turned, and left quickly.

Neither man moved a muscle or said a word until they were both certain she and the dog had had time to retreat back to the kitchen.

Wilson's eyes were wide and incredulous.

"You just … _you just_ ..."

He knew he could not continue without stammering. "A formal p-peck on the cheek at a funeral in front of fifty witnesses is one thing … b-but ... hugging your mother with honest affection is a minor m-miracle for you."

He'd been standing with both suitcases still clutched in his hands. He dropped them quickly in the middle of the floor and stood with fists on hips, grinning like a drunken sailor at his friend in the plushy chair.

"Don't be a wiseass!" House growled. "I suppose you never gave your mother a peck on the cheek?"

"_Many_ times … way beyond counting!" Wilson chortled. "But with me, it's expected and familiar. It's what we Wilsons do! You … on the other hand … who the hell _are _you … and what have you done with Gregory House?"

"Shut up, Wilson," House said, struggling out of the chair. "I don't need your smartass comments at the moment. Besides, you should get out of my way, 'cause I really gotta pee!"

oooooo

Blythe was loading dishes into the dishwasher an hour later when she heard Baxter walk across the kitchen floor and stand with his ears perked in the direction of the hallway. She glanced up and saw James Wilson coming toward her. He was freshly showered; dressed in grey sweats and soft-sole moccasins.

"There you are!" she said, closing the door of the machine and setting it to wash cycle. "You look fresh and comfortable. I was wondering if you both had decided to turn in. Could you use another cup of coffee? I just made a fresh pot. And the banana crème pie still awaits."

"That sounds wonderful, Blythe. It was a long drive. I think I would like to just sit and unwind with someone who's pleasant and mellow and not pissed off at me. My angry friend used the soaker tub earlier, and he did ask me to tell you the hot water helped to ease his soreness a lot."

"I'm glad of that. I was picturing him giving you all sorts of trouble for dragging him down here. And then he surprised me so completely with that kiss on my cheek … I couldn't possibly sleep right now ..."

Wilson smiled and shook his moppy head. "He had problems with his dad, Blythe, not with you. Never with you. He was almost pleasant for the last hundred miles or so. At least as pleasant as he ever gets. The kiss awhile ago surprised me as much as you. I don't doubt it surprised him as well."

Blythe sighed, rolling her eyes. "It was wonderful. Maybe we can find a way to patch things up while you're here. He and John never got along … from the time he was little. John was too harsh and Gregg was always defiant. I wish it hadn't been that way, but it was."

Wilson looked away, biting his lip.

_If you only knew …_

"Is he sleeping now?"

"Well, when I left, he was under the covers and dozing off watching 'Family Guy'. His hip is on the mend now, but he's still having trouble maintaining his balance. He tires very easily."

Blythe pulled two coffee mugs from the cupboard and placed them on the kitchen island.

She studied the extraordinary young man before her with an appraising eye. He looked almost as gaunt about the face and body as Gregg, but she would never tell him that. "Belly up to the bar, son," she said. "Good stuff comin' up." She filled two mugs and laid out milk and sugar.

She opened the refrigerator and drew out the banana crème pie. "Just a small piece before bed? Might conjure up some interesting dreams ..."

Wilson nodded and grinned the grin of a mischievous four-year-old. "As in: 'living in interesting times,' eh? If you insist; don't mind if I do."

Beside the back door, Baxter whined to go out and she cracked open the door for him.

"Gregg used to burrow deep under the covers when he was little. From the time he was about five years old. I'd peek into his room to check on him the last thing before I went to bed. He had this old maroon quilt that he kept tented around him ... glowing on top like a volcano. He wore out many a battery going to sleep curled in a ball under that quilt with a book … and a flashlight turned on. You made me think of that just now."

Wilson smiled again, curling his long fingers around the hot coffee cup. "This evening is like a small slice of armistice, Blythe. It's nice to relax. I know my friend is comfortable back there, and he doesn't hurt. It's all good." He debated with himself for a moment, and decided she would love to hear anything he chose to impart having to do with her stubborn, willful son.

"He still has a lot of the child in him, you know. He's a ten-year-old boy locked in a man's body. He's thoughtless and careless and selfish sometimes, and he has this annoying tendency to try to self-destruct. He's also intuitive and logical and a genius. Not really a surprising combination as geniuses go. That gigantic intellect of his never shuts down."

Wilson stopped for a bite of pie and a swallow of coffee. Blythe's eyes were rapt upon his face. He took a deep breath and continued.

"I don't think he'll ever change, but that's okay, I guess. For some stupid reason I keep trying to fix him … like I keep forgetting he's not broke. He never apologizes for who he is and I have to accept that if I want to keep his friendship. And I do. It's the genius part of him that needs the release of his childish buffoonery. He drives me crazy with it. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sometimes he gets hurt when it does, and so I stick around to pick up the pieces. I'm not very good at protecting him from himself. He pushes way beyond his physical capacity because his body can't always go where

his mind tells it to go. Once in a while I just want to hit him over the head so I can get

a little peace and quiet." Wilson smiled in resignation.

"Then he'll turn around and do something absurdly kind that I never expect … and

while I'm still reeling from that, he'll follow up with some snide remark … or take off and disappear before I can say 'thanks'. It's like being best friends with a porcupine;

you want to see if you can pet it before it throws a tailfull of quills in your face."

"And can you?" Blythe's eyes were moist from hearing stories that warmed her soul.

"What? Oh … well … I guess not. Not really. I've picked a lot of quills out of my nose over the years."

They laughed together and drank coffee and exchanged anecdotes and ate pie.

Baxter came in from his perimeter patrol and they shared morsels of piecrust with him. Gratitude never looked so beautiful as in dark, liquid doggie eyes. Bax was in heaven. When it was all gone, he wandered over to the kitchen table and sprawled out beneath it with a contented sigh.

"I feel just like that dog," Wilson remarked softly.

Blythe agreed. "Me too."

Together they stacked the dishes for the dishwasher; scrubbed pots and pans and prep dishes and utensils and put them away.

When next they looked at the clock, it was almost 11:00 p.m., and they didn't know where the evening had gone.

Blythe unplugged the coffee pot and set their mugs in the sink.

"Thank you," Wilson said, "for a totally pleasant conversation."

She smiled sadly back at him before turning to go upstairs. "No … thank _you,_ James_._ Thank you for sharing such fascinating stories about my beautiful son … someone I hardly know anymore …"

Wilson walked down the hallway without saying anything further. She would understand he was at quite a loss for words.

_Wow!_

_oooooooooooo_

94


	16. Chapter 16

ROAD RAGE

Chapter 16

"Morning Serenade"

January 18

Sunrise:

House awoke early Sunday morning, borderline groggy and disoriented. He had a muzzy, blank feeling that told him he'd slept either too long or not long enough.

He turned his head on the pillow and tensed, listening to the old apartment with his body.

_Ow!_

Gradually he let his eyes move across the space to the spot on his dresser where he'd always kept the ancient electric alarm clock with the lighted dial. Neither clock nor dresser were where they were supposed to be; only another large dark bed like the one upon which he was lying.

The other bed had another large dark lump that formed a mound in the middle of the mattress. The sounds emanating from over there reminded him of an Amish sawmill.

"_Zzz … Zzzz … Zzzzzzzzz …"_

Wilson!

They were in Kentucky, not New Jersey. This was the old man's place near Lexington, not the big wood-and-brick apartment complex in Princeton.

No, not the old man's place. Not anymore.

It was Mom's place now. Mom's house!

He was not sure whether he was comfortable with that. Sometimes his bones were still haunted by the ill-tempered ghost that had ridden his back and dug spurs into his flanks his entire youth.

He comforted himself with a sigh of reassurance that he was indeed in his family home. He also knew that the old bastard's angry spirit would take awhile to tire of the game and move on.

House was loathe to try moving to a different position. Disturbing the status-quo immediately after waking usually started the pain rumbling in on stainless steel runners, and he would be gasping. That would disturb Wilson. Even the passing thought of such a scenario this early in the morning brought a sour surge to his stomach.

For some unknown reason though, neither leg nor hip were blasting reveille through his pain center. At least not yet. He could have used a trip to the head, but he was certain he could probably postpone it another hour to give himself more time to get mobile. He had no idea what time it was, nor did he care. The fact that Wilson was still snoring across the room made him smirk.

Wilson was tired, he thought, and deservedly so. He had not been content until he'd cajoled House into taking this trip, then packed their bags and did all the driving to boot. He'd also hefted those damned heavy overnighters and dragged them around with him from hell to breakfast for two straight days.

God only knew what time Wilson had finally come to bed last night. He must have turned off the TV when he came in. Gregory House hoped the man's rear end was dragging his tracks shut. He smiled to himself again and pulled the covers tightly

over his head until they shut out the sound of snoring and the promise of approaching daylight. Glorious warmth, glorious darkness, glorious silence; except for the buzz saw across the room.

He settled in and waited for sleep to overtake him again.

But it didn't.

The act of sticking his head out from under the covers to look around awhile ago had chased away whatever magic spell might have ushered him back toward oblivion.

_Crap!_

He almost moaned aloud when he finally moved his leg, but clamped down on it in time to keep a string of curse words from escaping.

_Pain has no voice!_

He bit down on his lip and praised himself for his ability to remain silent, unlike the uneven rumble from the other bed. He threw back the covers with regret and paused a few moments, craning his neck to glare at the heap of noise across the room. There

was no movement, just the annoying dust-buster buzzing away.

A wash of purpose skittered down House's spine as he grasped his uncooperative leg with both hands and assisted it to the edge of the bed. His sore hip muscle ground out a warning, but he pushed himself to a sitting position and let his legs slide down and his feet dangle just above the floor.

He had to pee, so he might as well not put it off any longer.

Inch by precarious inch he eased himself to his feet, holding his breath, scraping his cane away from the footboard of the bed. He stood searching for balance as he always did. It was never easy for him to be stealthy, and he did not wish to wake Wilson. According to Murphy's Law, the quieter you tried to be, the more involuntary noise you made. Also, attempting to move about on a bum leg that shot sparks into your spinal cord while you tried not to wake your roommate, was as difficult as trying to stifle a sneeze. When

you finally let it fly, it practically propelled you against the wall.

House had seldom, if ever, tried to be this quiet in order to let Wilson sleep.

_Shit!_

oooooo

James Wilson waited patiently until the uneven footsteps echoed away into the bathroom and the door snicked shut.

If he'd had to listen to House trying to be 'polite' much longer, he'd have had to smother his laughter with a hand clamped over his mouth. He sighed deeply and sat upright to swing around and perch on the edge of the mattress. He rubbed sleepers from the corners of his eyes and palmed his face briskly. He was about as awake as he was going to be until he had a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. Actually, he'd slept like a rock in spite of the two cups he'd had last night.

The bathroom door was thick and mildly soundproof under normal circumstances. For

a full half hour, however, he could have counted on fingers and toes the number of times his idiot friend proved normal circumstances wrong.

Wilson heard the lid of the toilet drop loudly onto the porcelain, and then the clunk

of the medicine cabinet door. He snickered. A short time later the clatter of a plastic drinking glass ricocheted briefly against the empty sink, quickly stifled. He heard a

long string of muted profanity and the hollow thump of an elbow against the wall.

Wilson found himself unable to stop laughing. He thought he might choke. His hopes

of going back to sleep under any circumstances were dashed as he heard the unmistakable clack of the cane striking the commode as House righted himself. More curses followed, along with a string of heavy disjointed thuds of House hopping about. Wilson tensed himself to spring to his friend's aid, fearing that he would next hear the thump of a body hitting the floor or the wall. Or both.

_House … for God's sake!_

The toilet flushing and shower water running finally ended the banging and vibrating. Occasional thumps of House's elbows against the shower stall were all that remained.

What the hell was he doing in the shower this morning? He'd sat for nearly an hour in the soaker tub last night.

Irresistible forces versus immovable objects. Unless he was easing seized muscles with cascades of hot water. Yeah, that was it.

Then it grew quiet.

James blinked in the gloom and finally discerned that the bathroom light had just flicked off. He heard the turn of the doorknob. Quickly he leapt back to the middle of the bed and drew the blanket over himself.

Stealthy, uneven footfalls moved across the bedroom. Heavy breathing accompanied House's awkward movements toward the hallway door. House couldn't help that. He was actually doing his best not to make noise.

_Nice, considering the source._

Wilson smiled widely under the blanket. He couldn't help himself. He took a fistful of comforter and jammed it against his mouth.

_Also pathetic._

As he lay still, trying to relax again, Wilson felt a sudden surge of silly affection steal over him for his clueless friend. Gregory House always kept his rough side on the outside, although he honestly tried to smooth it out once in awhile with a dollop of ill-planned, poorly executed good intentions.

Wilson waited awhile; making sure House was really headed for the kitchen. He stood up and stretched his back muscles, allowing the pent-up laughter to escape quietly until

it played itself out. He was irretrievably wide awake. He looked at the clock on the table by the window.

_My God. It's only six-thirty … not even daylight._

oooooo

The interval between nighttime and morning was darker than dark. House had to squint in order to make out any details. The lone street lamp down the block sent a narrow path of ghostly light on the polished floor across the living room. It did not illuminate much further than that. A night light beside the kitchen sink lifted a shadow or two from the tops of gleaming granite counters. He stopped by the counter where the coffee maker stood and picked up the Vicodin bottle; thrust it into the pocket of his sweats. Shuffled back to the archway and lingered there, fingering the bottle and putting off taking one … or two … or more …

House stood hunched beneath the walnut arch that separated kitchen from living room. His body felt heavy and gimpy, and every step he took vibrated his bones like an out-of-tune combustion engine. He couldn't put off taking his pills much longer.

Contrary to what he had formerly believed, however, he found himself almost at peace

in this unfamiliar house with its elegant 1980's décor. Even though he felt the presence of the colonel still locked into the outdated furniture and general mood of the place, he was not overly uncomfortable here. It reminded him a little of some of the good times when he was a kid.

Here, the remembrance of his constrained youth seemed eclipsed by the drastic change in surroundings. This house bore no resemblance to ill-remembered, frequent turnovers of bleak military billeting_._ John's essence was faded and shadowy in this elegant house, but a few recent memories still intruded.

Gregg remembered the odd sensation of an old man's awkward offer of truce. The last time his parents had visited him in his office at the hospital a long time ago now was, as usual, too little too late.

It had infuriated him at the time that John's teasing remarks had ignited new sparks of hope for romance in the eyes of Allison Cameron. It had taken him months to extinguish the firestorm from that one. He'd sometimes regretted the fact that he was old enough to be her father … not merely that she was so infatuated with him … but also because, damn, the woman was _hot!_

He had to smile a bit though, remembering that Blythe's offer of a Reuben in the hospital's cafeteria quickly cancelled out any further dark thoughts of Cameron.

House leaned back against the hard smoothness of the room divider and allowed his eyes to roam. The tasteful appearance of this house, which he had visited only once before, held no special memories. It was merely a collection of familiar "things" placed in an alien setting. He remembered from his youth the presence of U. S. Marine memorabilia here and there on end tables, bookshelves; and plaques denoting military achievements on the walls. The same junk that had been scattered around every military installation they'd ever been assigned to. His mom must have removed it all after John died.

Only the beautiful old spinet piano against the eastern wall in _this _house lent a sense of familiarity for him. It was a 1940s Baldwin Acrosonic, and his mom was the one who gave him his first lessons in the very early 60s. He could not have been much older than three or four the first time.

All the old family photographs were merely 'set' decoration. The most this place could offer him was a blank slate to be built upon for the future, if such a thing be possible. Only the presence of the little piano held meaning for him, and he felt himself drawn to it. Slowly he made his way into the room and eased down on the padded bench. He hung his cane from the side and placed long fingers on the keys.

House didn't play anything right away, or let his hands press down on the chord his fingers were forming. He let his head rise until it almost lay backward on his shoulders. His eyes closed with a hint of reverie and he sat there a minute or two to let a little of his overflowing soul steal out …

Against his better judgment he had voluntarily kissed his mother last night, and he thought her incredulous body might just rise into the air like a bubble and float away in throes of ecstasy. He'd felt inexplicably virtuous for having done it. No. That was the wrong word. Their short embrace had felt good. Right. 'Politically correct' was the term they used these days. He wondered why it had taken him so damned long.

Last week Wilson mentioned something that had nagged at him ever since:

"_Your father loved you, House. You couldn't see it because the softer side of him got lost under all the military protocol. He couldn't find the right words to express his love for those he cared about most. You didn't understand then … or didn't want to … and now, neither can you. All you remember is the way it hurt you. Your mom knew. She always understood. And she knows that even after all this time; you're more like him than different from him." _

Something like that …

Wilson, damn him, was perceptive in so many ways that House had seldom given him credit for. And so, Gregg continued to lurk in the shadows, mouth breathing, head tossed back and eyes filled to their brims with tears of regret.

His discomfort finally forced him to move. He dug the pills out of his pocket and took two, because logic told him two were better than one. It had as much to do with the pain of unaccustomed emotion as pain of the physical. Admitting a truth he didn't always recognize was becoming increasingly obvious to acknowledge.

Pausing to look around without making snap judgments, his eyes settled on the spinet

When he straightened and looked down at his hands again, Baxter was waiting for him. The big collie settled his whiskered muzzle gently onto House's knee. Dim light from that distant street lamp reflected a strange empathic glint in the dog's eyes that House could not quite fathom. He placed his hand gently upon Bax's head. Baxter would never reveal any state secrets.

"You miss the bastard, don't you?"

Silky ears fluttered back and forth, and the big dog's lips flattened against his teeth and flared out again with every breath. The air stirred with the wagging of his tail and Gregg let his fingers scratch gently behind the soft ears and around to the thickness of the tan ruff at his throat.

"Yeah … I know … I miss the old son of a bitch too."

Bax must have heard him moving around in the kitchen, Gregg thought, and so he had investigated the unaccustomed thump of the cane on the hardwood floor. Now the dog positioned himself close to the piano bench and watched with tilted head and clueless devotion as House once again placed his long fingers with almost feathery lightness upon the keys.

He hit the chord he'd keyed into before, keeping the melody gentle as the whisper of a breeze through spring leaves. Head bent low over his hands, he communed with his soul.

"_When they begin the beguine,_

_It brings back the sound_

_Of music so tender._

_It brings back a night _

_Of tropical splendor. _

_It brings back a memory_

_Of green …"_

The tone of the Baldwin was muted and subdued, almost as though a layer of gauze had been hung between the hammers and the wires. He grinned to himself in sudden recollection. This instrument had always had this muted tone, as long as he could remember. It was the nature of the beast. He relaxed and allowed all of his senses to appreciate it. He played with rich instinctive feeling, and in his mind a memory emerged: a vision of a couple floating across a dance floor in perfect motion with the music. The image lifted his fingers onto the correct keys and into flawless rhythm. He ran the first verse and repeated, and began the bridge:

"_To live it again is past all endeavor,_

_Except when that tune clutches my heart._

_And there we are, swearing to love forever_

_And promising never, never to part …"_

When the music faded, he slumped, still caught in the moment; free of conscious thought. His hand went back to touch Baxter's coat, stroking the silken fur.

Baxter was trembling, coming alert and tensing. Turning his attention away. House gathered his body and straightened, glancing around.

He came to full awareness, looked up and froze.

His mother stood on the bottom step in bathrobe and slippers. Both hands gripped the newel post.

Morning sun, just beginning to find its way into the downstairs, glinted off the moisture at the corners of her eyes. She stood motionless, watching and listening in mute captivation.

Across from her at the near end of the hallway, James Wilson in clean jeans and tee shirt in stark contrast to still-moppy bedroom hair, paused by the room divider and glanced from one of them to the other.

_Busted!_

Gregory House scowled, and then glared at his mother and back to Wilson.

"What? Did I leave the toilet seat up? "

Oooooooooooo

102


	17. Chapter 17

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 17

"Daddy Issues"

Sunday morning,

January 18:

House sat hunched over the piano keys, his right hand resting on Baxter's head. For an instant man and animal both looked like deer caught in the headlights. House knew his leg was getting ready to go into spasm again. He felt the damaged muscle tighten like one of the piano wires growing taut beneath his skin.

.

An awkward moment is an awkward moment, no matter how you define it. No matter how you edit in your memory later on, the reality of it stays with you a long time. Right then, there were no words. Blythe, ephemeral in silk robe and slippers, stood frozen in time with a beatific look on her face.

Wilson stood apart from them both, right hand on the wall, left hand reaching outward like a man beseeching. His disheveled hair and eclectic brown eyes looked as though he'd witnessed something unmanageable. The scene might have made an interesting daguerreotype flash, silver nitrate refractions and all, except that it didn't last long enough.

"'Left the toilet seat up?' Wait! What? Did you?"

Without moving his head, House flicked his attention between Mom and Friend. He could not erase the smirk, so he embraced it. The scene freeze-framed for one miniscule fraction of a second. A slice of time embedded itself in quicksilver. A single instant became distorted midway between two parallel universes.

_Deflect!_

Wilson dropped his hands and walked into the kitchen, body rigid. He caught Blythe's gaze and quickly averted his eyes. She joined him as he pulled out a stool and seated himself at the counter. "What was _that_?"

When she didn't answer, Wilson's gaze darted across the intervening space and settled

on House, still sitting in silence at the piano. Something in his friend's posture didn't

set quite right with Wilson, but House's face gave no sign of anything out of the ordinary.

"Trying to sleep with him banging around in the bathroom is like trying to sleep in a roundhouse," Wilson muttered in an effort to deflect from the awkwardness. "He spent

a half hour this morning throwing golf balls at the walls."

Blythe laughed softly because it seemed like the only thing to do to diffuse whatever it was that was building between the two men. "I swear … one might think you two hate each other … if one didn't know better. I'll get the coffee going. By the way, that was beautiful, Gregg. I haven't heard that song in a long time."

House stared at her for a long moment as the tension in the air slowly began to diminish. So far neither Wilson nor his mom had a clue about his mounting discomfort. He needed to keep it that way until he could conjure up an excuse to get out of there.

"I remembered you and dad dancing to it once. I was looking at your anniversary picture and it popped into my head." His right hand still rested on Baxter's dark fur, and the dog clung to the man's side, pressing his warm body tightly against House's bad leg. The whiskery muzzle still rested on his knee.

Across the kitchen the sound of Wilson clattering dishes on the counter drew their attention back to reality. House was in need of further medication. He could feel the

pain gathering, poised to return. He retrieved his cane from where it leaned against the piano's sounding board and pushed to his feet. The truncated muscle cramped and he gasped.

Blythe was saying something about getting a fresh container of half'n'half from the refrigerator.

House felt his leg contract when he straightened, and for a moment he froze, fighting it. He could not remain standing long, never knowing when the cramping might progress from restless to volcanic. He was an expert at keeping others in the dark when he hurt, but it was more difficult here in this house where he could not escape the scrutiny of Wilson and his mother.

Now, as he paused in the lengthening shadows of morning, he felt another cramp pulsing in the ligaments behind his knee; threatening to lift his heel off the floor and induce a contraction in his sore hip. He had to move and stretch it out, if that might be enough to let him escape. There was a morphine stash in the zippered lining of his overnighter …

House moved away from the piano and began to limp heavily down the hallway. He threw a quick grin back over his shoulder before it turned to a grimace. Both his mother and Wilson were looking after him. "Gotta go to the little boys' room," he said, quickening his pace.

They did not follow or question him. That was a good thing. But the breakthrough pain was probably coming back. He could feel it tightening in his gut and inching downward.

oooooo

The suitcases Wilson had dragged into the bedroom yesterday lay open beside the chairs at the table. House went to his and rummaged beneath clean underwear for the drug kit he'd managed to stuff in there before they left Princeton. He found the plastic baggie and hobbled with it to the bed, quickly removing the syringe.

Daub of alcohol, swipe of gauze, tightened tourniquet above his elbow; rush of miracle-liquid into the vein. The needle was in and out in one swift motion because he was a pro.

He pulled off the tourniquet and leaned back on his hands. A tiny drop of blood blossomed from the injection site inside the bend of his elbow. He swiped it away.

His arm trembled for a moment, but he ignored it. He bit down on his lip, waiting

for the medicine to work. His leg muscle relaxed slowly, a final nip before oblivion.

Baxter had followed him back the hallway and now sat beside the bed near House's feet. The dog's eyes followed every move, every muscle tic. The furry face was intense … if a collie's face could be called "intense".

House stared back at him, still bothered by the hackles that stood up on the scruff of his neck: the quivering muzzle, the clenched body, and the sad human look in doggy eyes. Something in their depths hinted at a vast, mysterious intelligence. Baxter's posture was off a tad; something that hinted at disappointment and disapproval.

The dog got up and began to circle. His nostrils distended, sniffing the air, pacing the floor beside the bed. House watched him closely, realizing that something was off kilter; something he should recognize and understand. But his consciousness was turning foggy, and facts were not presenting in a logical manner. If this was a puzzle, it continued to elude him. He could not connect the dots. He could not connect anything. His field of vision was narrowing rapidly. He felt uneasy and his head was swimming.

Disorientation from the morphine. Of course. Perhaps the dog could sense the pheromones releasing and the endorphins flooding his system as the pain gradually backed off. Bax was probably sniffing chemical reactions in the human as House's body slumped. For the first time he was worried. His skin crawled. He straightened and sat up with senses coming back alert, but it was staggeringly slow.

He must put the kit away before Wilson saw it and asked more questions than House

was prepared to answer. He recapped the empty syringe and placed it back in the plastic baggie, along with the tourniquet and small vial of alcohol.

Clumsily he struggled to his feet again and scrabbled for a new sense of balance. The pain was there, but lurking at a safe distance, pushing against the temporary restraint. Presently, he replaced the thin package in the lining of the overnighter and zipped it closed.

House went into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly. He relieved himself and flushed the gauze and sterile wrappings down the toilet, mixed together with his own stream. He leaned most of his weight onto the cane, letting it do the work neither of his legs seemed willing to do. While the toilet ran and water refilled the tank, he lifted his head and studied his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He was pasty faced. Pain lines snaked downward from the corners of his mouth. Dark blotches like poorly applied makeup marked the area around his eyes. His hair was a fright wig, and it was getting greyer and greyer. He was beginning to look like an old man long before his time.

When he shambled back to the bedroom, Baxter stood in the middle of the floor staring at him. He lowered himself gingerly to the edge of the bed and buried his face in the palms of his hands, peering outward from behind the slits between his fingers.

The dog looked disgusted. How does a dog "look" disgusted? House didn't know. It was more an attitude than a threat, but it became more apparent the longer he looked.

He only knew what he was seeing at the moment.

He lowered his hands and glared owlishly at Baxter. "What the hell's _your_ problem?"

Bax cocked his head in a fashion that said he was pondering the question. He did not look away as most dogs do when confronted by a human stare. His eyes held House's own in a weary, condescending manner.

"_What problem, Junkie?" _House heard the words clearly.

The gruff voiceover echoed inside House's head. The timbre and cadence were familiar, and a little intimidating. House's facial expression changed quickly from puzzled to full-blown anger.

"What the hell _is_ this?"

"_What's what?"_

"Why am I hearing you in my head? Didn't we have this conversation once before? Either I'm going crazy or you are." House did not break his stare and Baxter didn't yield.

Both furry ears stood at attention, looking like the dog was telling the man that if he

paid strict attention he would learn the whos, whys and wherefores of everything.

House rambled on, talking to hear his voice conquer the silence, not ready to listen to a hallucination from the realm of impossibility; especially something that might resemble a truth he did not wish to hear.

"If I remember right," he growled, "you pulled this crap once before, back in Princeton

a couple of years ago. Have I gone all the way around the bend this time? Did I inject myself with too much joy juice … and now I'm hallucinating _you_, for chrissake?"

The attempt at macabre humor fell flat.

"_I don't know, boy. Have you? Did you? Are you? You're a very intelligent human being, Gregg. At least you used to be. You were when I saved your life and you sort-of saved mine. You made the cops go into that culvert and get me out. Remember? You need to stop looking at my dog-face and start seeing my people-face. This is all I have to work with, so get your head out of your bunghole and wake-the-hell up. Get with the program! I don't have much time here!"_

Baxter turned himself around quickly and plopped his butt down. He returned his attention to the incredulous look in Gregory House's eyes.

"_Come on, Gregg! Don't pretend you don't know what this is about. You need to listen to what I have to say!"_

House gasped. His face assumed a look of storm clouds. The past caught up with him and something paused to connect a few wires inside his brain.

"_Get it together, man! Straighten up and fly right!"_

This was followed by a sharp sensation of human fingers smacking the back of his

head, and a long Marine-trained forefinger hovering in his face. All House's past

history exploded around him like a land mine. Somehow, beyond all sense, beyond

all sanity and explanation, The Colonel was back.

House's equilibrium rocked to hell. It knocked the breath out of him and made the pain in his leg and hip bust-and-gone like a bubble. He shook all over. He felt decades of hate and resentment smolder and ignite. He let go of the cane and it hit the floor with a muted thump. He slumped onto the bed and again covered his face with both hands.

This was _not _happening …

"_Look at you … you look like an autopsy on wheels. You sit there shaking like a leaf, _

_and you look worse than I did when I DIED, for Christ sake! You need to get your ass _

_to a drunk tank … get off the pills and the booze …do some honest rehab and sober-the-hell up. Stop the lying and the bullshit and playing games with life._

"_Jesus, Gregg, you make me want to throw up. I admit I wasn't the best father in the world. I wasn't there for you much, and in your case, military discipline didn't help. It only made you more of an ass."_

House's face lost all color. The man had always made him feel either half homicidal or morbidly ashamed. There had never been a middle ground for the two of them. Angrily, he struck back in his own defense.

"You bastard … I'm not hooked on drugs or alcohol. I need them just to stay upright. When you're in the kind of pain I'm in all day every day, and you know it won't ever get better, you have to do something … either find a way to relieve it or blow the top of your head off. I didn't do anything to deserve the hand that I got dealt. I didn't!"

"_Oh God … but you sure can whine, can't you?! Right after your leg went AWOL you were offered every means of dealing with your pain that's known to human-kind. They sent you to rehab for physical therapy and pain management … which, I might add, _

_you ran out on after a week. You cursed and shouted down every specialist who tried to talk to you or tried to help you."_

"If Stacy hadn't insisted on 'the middle ground' and used her power of attorney to force them to perform surgery on my leg, I would have regained almost full use of it." House's voice was strained with self-righteous anger.

"_Oh sure … blame it on Stacy. The woman loved you, you ass. And she very likely saved your miserable life."_

"Yeah? And for what? To be a fucking cripple for the rest of my life? What kind of life is that? Yeah, I take too many pills. Use too much morphine. Drink too much booze. I can't stand the pain otherwise."

"_You dumped the wheelchair and crutches and insisted on trying to walk with a cane way ahead of the time when your body was ready to handle it. You threw your shoulders and your hips out of line and your back into curvature because you refused to listen to physical therapists who were specially trained to teach you exactly how to do it right. Now you'll never be rid of the cane … because you couldn't stand to progress a little bit at a time. You thought you knew better than the experts. Well, guess what! _

"_Even your boss-lady at Princeton-Plainsboro told us that you still eat those damned oxy-watchamacallit pills like M & M's, and you're buzzed out of your mind half the time. You've lost muscle tone, and your foot swells up 'til you can't get a shoe on. Your thigh looks like an old fence post that somebody took a hatchet to. We saw the pictures. You can't walk more than a few steps by yourself, or you land on your ass. And here you are, shooting up with morphine and hiding it from your mother and the only friend you have left in the world. How long do you think you can keep this up? Huh?"_

House was silent. He could feel a burn beginning behind his eyes. It was like someone had taken a 55-gallon drum labeled: "TRUTH", and dumped it over the top of his head.

"You son of a bitch!"

Baxter spun around and trotted out of the room. John House's mind-voice continued to ricochet off the synapses in his son's head:

"_Just like always … still running away from what IS!"_

House sat and stared at the empty doorway. The words he'd just heard, whether they'd echoed out of his past or emanated from the mouth of God, had left him defeated and humiliated.

Frightened and worried.

Ashamed and overpowered.

Karma from the mind of a dog?

What did he have to do to get all of them the hell off his back?

He honestly didn't know.

_oooooooooooo_

109


	18. Chapter 18

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 18

"Tales Out of School"

January 18

Sunday morning, later:

Bacon was positioned in the pan with precision, sizzling gently, each slice stretched

precisely beside its neighbor; close but not touching. Like railroad ties before the rails are laid.

Wilson was all about precision.

A carton of eggs stood open on the counter beside the stove, awaiting their turn in the frying pan. A large platter spread with a double layer of paper towels already held a precise array of meticulously straight golden brown bacon strips. Wilson was frying up another layer and criss-crossing them in the same manner. Surely more than enough for everyone, even someone like Gregory House, who loved Wilson's bacon strips and even more, loved snatching them off the paper towels.

Directly across the kitchen Blythe House tended to the coffee and toast making. Each square was buttered lightly, cut cross-corner and folded over, then aligned in perfect rows. She was finding out that she and Wilson had a lot in common. Strong fragrant coffee dripped from the brewing basket into the glistening Pyrex pot, a counterpoint to the hissing of bacon on the stove.

James stole a glance at his silent companion, busy concentrating on her preparations. Only a mother who adored a son the way Blythe did Gregg, would go to such great pains preparing a simple weekend breakfast this perfectly.

In an effort to distract her and perhaps get her to talk about her changed lifestyle since

her husband's death, Wilson asked a single question. "How are you, Blythe … really?"

She blinked rapidly and looked up, startled, at the serious expression on his face, still half hidden beneath tangled auburn hair. He had not only broken her concentration, but hit precisely on the exact subject of her thoughts. She'd been ruminating about things she needed to tell Gregory … some of them difficult and revealing. She was not sure how he might take them, or how she might respond to his inevitable acerbic comments.

She put on her best "lady" face and looked across to James at the frying pan, poking bacon with a granny fork. Ordinarily she would have brushed off such a question with:

"_I'm fine, thanks for asking …"_

Too late; she was looking into deep, shining pools of honest concern. Was this an oncologist's practiced sympathy face, or did this young man actually give a damn

about how she was and what she felt?

Blythe paused a moment before answering. She studied his face skeptically for a moment, looking for signs of a loyal sidekick seeking information with which to report back to Gregg on his mother's state of mind. She saw no such deceit; only the sable depths of those eyes asking a simple question and awaiting a simple answer.

"It's been hard," she admitted at last. "John was not himself the past year. He was difficult … and I guess I was too. He was failing physically, and beginning to forget things. He wouldn't listen to his doctor or anyone else. He was always complaining

that no one ever came to see us anymore, and blaming Gregory for not being a proper

son … not coming to visit his mother."

"Do you think that was how he really felt?" Wilson asked gently.

Blythe shook her head slowly from side to side. "Of course not. He missed Gregg as much as I did. And he missed his friends. John was filled with regrets about things that happened in the past and about our son's difficulties growing up. He was an absentee father most of the time. He tried to make up for it when he was home, but it just wasn't enough. They had nothing in common … except anger. Gregg hated the military; any subordinate lifestyle for that matter that ran on rules and regulations. John thrived on it. When he was home his methods of discipline were harsh, and Gregg defied him every chance he got.

"Gregg was a gifted child. He was _so _intelligent. Easily fascinated, but just as easily distracted. His I. Q. tested at 127 when he was eleven. He read the World Book cover-to-cover just for the fun of it, and drove me crazy with trivia questions: 'Hey Mom … what's the population of Desert Hole, Wyoming?'

'I don't know, dear. I never heard of Desert Hole, Wyoming …' and he would laugh.

And then he would tell me …

"He and his dad didn't speak the same language, or even think on the same wavelength. There was no real communication between them because John ruined that when Gregg was only three."

"What happened then?" Wilson was reluctant to ask, but he needed to know. House had once told him he had been: "alienating people since I was three …"

"Gregg was playing in the living room when John came home from a month of TDY. There were books and toys scattered on the floor. Base housing then, wasn't very roomy. John tried to pick him up and play with him … but Gregg screamed to be put down. It made John mad. His three-year-old son didn't want to be bothered with him. He told Gregg to pick up his stuff and put it away or he was going to bed without supper. Gregg just sat there on the floor and glared up at his father.

"John said: 'NOW!'

"Gregg said: 'Fuck you!'

"John cuffed him and he flew across the room and into the couch. He wasn't hurt much, except for his pride, but he never forgot it. After that Gregg stayed away from his father. He lived in his bedroom when John was home, and as he got older, he hung out at school and at the library. On weekends he played sports and stayed at his buddies' houses. If he and John talked at all, it was in one or two-word sentences. John never hit him again, but it only got worse. John found other methods.

"Sometimes I felt like an outsider, but I didn't dare come between them. I tried it once and they both screamed at me.

"Gregory avoided his dad like the plague, and it got worse after he became an adult.

Stacy once insisted they visit us, right after we retired and bought the house. That visit was a mistake from start to finish.

"Why was that?"

"It was awhile before he had the infarction. We knew he didn't want to come down here, but Stacy talked him into it. When they arrived, Stacy flattered John until he was eating out of her hand. She flirted shamelessly and then smiled that coy little smile at Gregg … trying to get a reaction from him. He didn't take the bait. I'm sure he was onto her. I stayed pretty much away from her.

"They only stayed the one weekend … and when they left, Stacy was mad at Gregg and John was mad at me. To be perfectly honest, I was relieved when she was finally out of the picture. I don't think the two of us would have made it as mother and daughter-in-law if he'd married her.

"When he went through that horrible year after his leg became crippled, he was furious with Stacy for overriding his wishes. She finally left him. Who knows, James … if she'd let it alone and let him ride out the pain in a coma like he wanted, his leg might be very close to normal today ... just like he said … but we'll never know.

"After that we didn't see or hear from him for a whole year, and another year besides …"

Blythe looked up to see concern and little else on Wilson's face. "Oh James, I'm so sorry. Lord how I do run on!"

Surprisingly, Wilson's face was pale, his brow furrowed. He turned the burner off and laid down the fork. "I've often wondered too, if he might not have ridden it out and made at least a partial recovery. But you're right, we'll never know." It was a moot question.

He changed the subject: "Did he really say the_ 'F' _word? To his father? At three years old?"

Blythe understood the reason for the switch in topic. It was a place neither of them wished to go. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Oh yes indeed. John was old-school military through and through … and that included all the colorful language that went with it.

"Gregg heard it all from the time he was born, and that quicksilver brain soaked it up like a blotter. He'd heard his father say that word to friends in jest all of his short life. So he said it too. John was floored. He over-reacted, not realizing that a three-year-old had no concept of what 'fuck you' meant."

Wilson nodded, half smiling. _I'm not so sure about that!_

Aloud, he said: "He hasn't changed much, has he? Except now he knows what it means, and how to use it very effectively. In the car, on the way down here, I asked him why he wasn't sure of the directions to this house, and he told me he had only been here once before. And he said the same thing you did … that the visit from him and Stacy was a disaster from beginning to end. The Stacy I know is very intelligent and very …well … manipulative," he admitted.

Blythe smiled at that. "The two of us … we were just too different. We couldn't find common ground. She's a very strong professional woman … very commanding and smart. Had she been in the military, she would easily have outranked John. He was all about the 'hands-on' method … the 'push-'til-it-gives' approach. Stacy was about the intelligence and the strategy. Outthink the other guy and beat him at his own game. She charmed John into a lump of putty. I'm sure a big part of it was to see if she could make Gregg jealous. She knew he hated his father. He never kept it a secret. She smiled at John and batted her eyelashes and he followed her around like a puppy. She and Gregg argued a lot and John defended Stacy against his own son.

"I decided that if she did things that way after they were married, the marriage wouldn't last long. I was a little jealous of her, I'll admit. I felt outclassed. She's a beautiful woman, every bit as smart as Gregg, and just as hard to bend in any direction she doesn't want to bend.

"Anyway, she and I didn't have a single conversation during the time they were here. We were wary of one another and there was just nothing to say. I love my son with all my heart, but I was actually relieved when they left a day early.

"Some months after that, Gregg had the thing with his leg. We found out that he would always be lame and in pain … never able to walk without a cane, at least. I was sick about it, but John … of course … preached his … 'stiff-upper-lip-bite-the-bullet-walk-it-off' military lingo. I really believe he thought Gregg was faking some part of it to get attention. He used to tell me he thought Gregg messed up his physical therapy himself, and on purpose. He should throw the damn cane away and exercise the leg. Stop the pansy stuff and grow-the-hell up!

"When he said that, I finally blew up in his face and told him if he ever said anything like that again about the son he was supposed to love … I'd leave him."

Blythe stopped talking abruptly, as though she'd fully realized what she'd just revealed.

James Wilson turned away from the stove and walked purposefully across to the other counter. His friend's mother stood isolated by painful memories, probably wondering whether she'd said too much.

Wilson took Blythe House into an easy embrace, enfolding her lightly. His gentle hands pushed her head against his shoulder. "You know something? You just took the first step to freeing yourself from a tradition that dictated an entire lifestyle to the men entrusted with our country's defense. But it was a long time ago. John was old school. He did the best he knew with what he'd been taught. You did too. You played by the rules, but now it's time to let go. Those days are over. You and your son need each other. I know he still insists he hated his father. I think he's a little vague on that. He's lived with that lie so long that it's become the only truth he recognizes.

"If there's anything I can do to move it along, Blythe, I will. If I can't, I'll stay out of the way."

When they released their embrace and stood back, their eyes were wide with discovery. Mutual respect and deepening friendship dwelt in the smiles they offered one another.

Breakfast was ready.

oooooooooooo

114


	19. Chapter 19

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 19

"Perchance"

Still later

Sunday morning:

"_To sleep, perchance to dream …"_

Who wrote that?

Shakespeare. Yeah.

He hated Shakespeare. If Shakespeare wasn't gay, he'd missed one hell of a good chance. The old bird did write some pretty cool stuff, but the stuff that was cool

got buried beneath layer upon layer of schmaltz that made you want to throw up

rather than wade through it looking for the goodies.

A little bit of Shakespeare went a long, long way.

House wasn't sleeping and he wasn't dreaming. He would have liked to sleep, but today he didn't dare. He was lying partially on his left side with his bum leg stretched out in a straight line. House rested one hand on Baxter's rib cage so that his hand moved up and down with the dog's breathing.

Bax was just a dog now, uninhabited by ghosts or poltergeists or the like. He had returned to jump onto the bed and do what dogs do whenever they can get away with it. House gazed up at the ceiling, enjoying what moments he could experience with no pain. His right elbow lay crooked over his forehead as he reveled in a temporary euphoria. The absence of cramps, spasms and crawly skin reminded him that he had once been able to fully enjoy the sensation of being 'normal'. He figured he had about two or three hours to experience life the way healthy people experienced it every day of their lives ….

He should pee again soon, and he should get back to the kitchen. He could smell those wonderful aromas, even from back here. His stomach rumbled for Wilson's yummy bacon and pancakes, but the blessed absence of pain was the most euphoric sensation of all.

The bout of cramps and spasms this morning had quickly gotten the better of him. After he'd injected himself on the morning he'd fallen off the stool, and again at the motel, and again here last night, there was absolutely no way of hiding it or pretending it didn't exist. And now, fifteen minutes ago … round four. Jesus!

He'd thought a lot about the 'Colonel Voice' in his head. If he faced the truth, that damn voice was but a manifestation of his own guilty conscience that told him he was indeed taking too many drugs; using too much morphine and other drastic painkillers. But he didn't know what else to do. If he had to live the rest of his life experiencing the kind of terrifying anticipation he had to deal with twenty four hours a day, he might as well just do as he'd threatened awhile ago: put a damn gun to his head and pull the trigger.

Bang!

End of Gregory House.

End of problem.

End of everything.

oooooooo

_Viewing … ride to the cemetery in a hearse pulled by four black horses … twenty-one gun salute …_

_Taps by Al Hirt …eulogy by POTUS: Dub-ya Whazzisname … tears from all the grandmothers and white roses across my coffin …_

_Prayers for my entrance into Paradise from columns of virgins and little children … funeral-goers boogeying behind a band playing Dixieland Jazz led by Dr. John …_

_Wilson with crocodile tears running down his face; wearing an all-black tuxedo_ …

_Whoa!_

_oooooooo_

House hated dosing himself with potent drugs, but when the werewolf was nipping at his heels, he could see no option. He couldn't stand to be physically vulnerable in front of his mother and Wilson. Not in his mother's house!

He was drowsy now, but he wouldn't allow himself to give in to sleep.

At his side, Baxter snuggled closer; his breathing, ear jerks and tiny whimpers from time to time indicated that he was the one asleep.

_Perchance to dream … right._

Gregory House didn't ordinarily condone the presence of a long-haired dog lying tight against his side … or even sharing the furniture. Hector, Wilson's fleabitten old mutt, had chewed up a pair of two-hundred-dollar sneakers and the handle of the Derby cane he'd swiped from the old guy at the hospital; the one thing he depended upon most to be able to maintain mobility. Baxter, fortunately, for as long as they had known one another, had chewed up nothing more than dog food and Doggy Yum-Yums.

When the dog scoped out a spot against House's belly, House allowed it. This was, after all, only the third being in his adult life that had ever chosen House's company because he actually wanted to. House was certain that _because _Bax had chosen to be there, the colonel was not lurking anywhere within the same galaxy.

_Is the old bastard gonna come back to haunt me again? Maybe some of the stuff he said came pretty close to being right._

_Damn!_

The thought had niggled off and on inside his head ever since it cuckolded him earlier. He could not dismiss it completely, or forget it.

House closed his eyes, sending his mind somewhere else, but it was as though a genie with a magic lamp stood nearby laughing at him:

'_May your life be filled with bullshit and dead roses …'_

House was surprised that someone hadn't already beat feet down the long hallway, wondering where the hell he was.

'_How can it possibly take half an hour for you to take a leak?'_

House quirked his mouth smugly, knowing exactly how Wilson would say that sentence: the words upon which his friend would place emphasis, and the ones he would enunciate in a more subtle manner.

House could predict the moment when Wilson would roll his eyes and roll his shoulders. Then he would reach to the spot at the base of his neck where he always dug into his tense muscles with strong fingertips …

Wilson was _so _predictable!

Wilson was a pain in the ass.

Wilson had always been, and always would be, one of the most positive influences in his miserable life.

Wilson dressed all in black?

His mother, on the other hand, would worry whether he was all right … whether he was hiding out, nursing his leg … unwilling or unable to join them for breakfast …

"_Not right now, Mom," _he would reply, and he would make sure she heard the stress in his voice.

House scrunched up his face in realization. He would have to be very careful around Wilson and his mom for awhile. He must not look drowsy, or appear to be _too_ damnpain free. He must maneuver carefully on the cane and plaster a look of non-emotion across his face. He was great at that, and even Wilson usually bought it. There were at least a dozen other little nuances that Wilson, as a doctor, would take note of immediately.

_Haw! _

He sighed. Why the hell did he still insist on trying to hoodwink his friend? Actually, the man might take one look at him and know that he was screwing around. After all that had happened between them during their long friendship, Wilson knew all his tricks and all his attempts at subterfuge.

Why couldn't he just come clean and admit that he had given himself another shot of happy juice? Wilson would be able to tell what House had done by the glitter in his eyes, which he couldn't disguise … and why it had been necessary. Wilson would understand. Wilson would be exceedingly kind about it. He did all his homework and was cognizant of his friend's physical pain. Wilson knew it was real and not in his head. He knew that pain ruled House's life. So why did House still insist on playing games?

Even House wasn't sure.

Somehow he had this perverse desire to get under Wilson's skin, bring out his restrained annoyance; bring him to the brink of exasperation and have him shouting and flailing his arms …

It was what Wilson did in response to House's shenanigans. Sometimes the two of them couldn't get a dialogue going any other way. Sometimes they had to yell at one another in order to have a conversation. If that was so, House knew it was mostly his fault. He was the one who possessed no social graces. He was the one with the shifty eyes and seldom a direct answer to a direct question. He was the one who would never back off.

House altered his position on the bed, lowered his arm to his side without disturbing the dog, and closed his eyes again. He was tired …

_To sleep, perchance to dream …_

"Get out of my head, Shakespeare, you old fart," he muttered.

He could not sleep. Not even doze.

Echoes of footsteps were finally approaching from the hallway.

_Oh crap! They're BOTH coming back here …_

He heaved a sigh and pushed himself to a sitting position. Baxter, rudely awakened, jumped obligingly off the bed. House manipulated himself to the edge of the mattress and slid his legs over. The cane was on the floor where he had dropped it earlier, but he did not try to reach for it.

He was facing the doorway when there came a soft tap of inquiry, and the door swung inward further.

Their eyes were filled with questions as they met his, and he looked back with one of his patented expressions of affronted innocence.

"Breakfast is ready, dear," said his mother. "Everything okay?"

He would have bet on it!

"I'm fine, Mom. I was just … chillin' out for a few minutes …"

"Been more than a few minutes, Ace," Wilson said. "It took you quite a while to go to the bathroom …"

_Wilson knew!_

House slumped. Of course he knew.

His mom with the cow eyes and Wilson with the knowing smirk.

House glanced back and forth, half smiling. Wilson's brown eyes were focused on the inside bend of his elbow where the tiny telltale smear of dark red remained.

_Shit!_

He glanced down where Wilson was looking, and saw that the skin was noticeably bruised from too many recent insertions of a hypodermic needle. Four morphine shots within three days almost counted as trauma.

Ten seconds passed. Wilson would not say anything in front of his mother.

But oh crap! Just wait until later …

Blythe did not notice the exchange of glances. She was not geared to their world of nuances. "Are you ready to come to breakfast then?"

He nodded cheerfully. "Yeah, Mom … sure. You go ahead and I'll be there in a minute. Gotta go to the head again …"

He reached for the cane, but Wilson was there ahead of him and handed it up. Their eyes met and drilled into each other for an instant of challenge.

A volume of volatile feelings passed swiftly between them.

"Better hurry up," Wilson growled. "The bacon is getting cold." He stomped out behind Blythe and the dog.

House had no trouble hearing … or interpreting.

Wilson was … _perchance … _pissed …

120


	20. Chapter 20

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 20

"Quiet Tantrum"

Minutes later:

House entered the kitchen, finally, and surveyed the scene. No one commented on

his well-being or lack thereof, and it galled him. Wilson and Blythe had moved to

the kitchen island and were brewing a fresh pot of coffee. House's best hang-dog expression usually brought sympathetic glances, but these two were having a quiet discussion on unrelated topics. It must have been amusing because they both laughed

at something as the coffeemaker began to gurgle on the counter.

House declined to perch on any of the counter stools. Even with his system pumped full of strong narcotics, the tall stools with their small round seats would not work. He then moved instead to the kitchen table where there were chairs that allowed his feet to settle flat on the floor.

He tuned in to the conversation, the words jumbling together above his head, floating on the air and echoing around him. He could feel his thoughts beginning to weigh down with annoyance. He smelled the enticing aroma of breakfast. They'd placed it in the oven while he lingered in the bedroom daring them to come after him. He was hungry, but he would not ask.

Blythe let the dog outside and then returned to pour fresh coffee into mugs which Wilson had arranged on the counter. Wilson walked over and set a steaming cup of brew before House and then returned to his conversation with Blythe without missing a beat. Neither questioned House's predawn turn at the piano or his sudden retreat to the bedroom. He decided they'd turned his reticence into a contest. He maintained a rigid shell around his personal space and continued to sit with his head averted, daring his mother or Wilson to penetrate it.

They were blowing him off …

Lengthening silences usually brought covert glances and awkward pauses from others. This morning though, House's impenetrable shield wasn't working because nothing was aimed in his direction. His mom and Wilson were talking about life in the military, a sore subject to him, and were ignoring him as though he were a hole in the air.

House watched Wilson's face from beneath half-closed lids as his friend sipped the strong, fragrant coffee. Resentfully, House gauged the other man's mood and wondered if he had enough stored ammunition with which to defend himself when Wilson decided to lecture him later. He knew his friend had seen ... and made it clear that he had seen ... the smear of blood and the bruise on his arm.

oooooooo

Wilson was keenly aware of House's scrutiny, but maintained a calm aloofness that would have given credit to Commander Spock. Wilson's hackles were attuned for combat if necessary, but he was unwilling to create a scene in full view of House's mother.

House waited, every nerve ending on red alert. Wilson continued to sip his coffee and kept up the chatter with Blythe. They veered away from talk of the military and ventured into Kentucky weather, the latest gas and oil prices, and points of interest in downtown Lexington.

House experienced a slow burn that drew nervous perspiration, causing him to tug at the collar of his shirt. He was completely unresponsive except to gesture for a refill of coffee from the pot near his mother's elbow.

Blythe obliged with an adoring smile and a pat on his forearm, but then politely returned her attention to Wilson.

House bit down on his lip. He would _not _make a scene. A cloud of imaginary sparks crackled harmlessly in the air above his head and bounced off his self-induced force field.

Two could play at this game. Or three …

House smoldered, feeling remote and isolated; ignored and unloved like an eleven-year-old whose family had purposely ignored his birthday.

He stole a glance at his watch. Where the hell had the time gone? Two and a half hours had passed since he'd gotten dressed in the bathroom. He felt a sudden twinge in his thigh, like something had touched it with an electric cattle prod. His right palm moved quickly to the area and pressed down on the scar. Force of habit. If nobody bothered to do unto you, you had to do unto yourself …

He finished his coffee, wiped his mouth and put down his napkin. Clumsily, he grasped his cane, clacking it against the table, and pushed to his feet. He felt their eyes follow him, but neither asked where he was going.

The old man would have yelled:_ "Walk it off, kid!"_

His coffee stood cooling in the mug. He suddenly had no stomach for it. The morphine had ruined his appetite. Even the aroma from the oven didn't smell good anymore. The napkin near his elbow dropped to the floor. He ignored it. He was pissed off and tired beyond reason. That was the morphine's fault too. And his mom's. And Wilson's.

Nothing was going the way he had imagined it. His dark mood was neutralizing the chemical reactions in his body, and the result was a dizzying combination of the two.

It was time to attain martyr status … play his trump card and make them both chase after him …

The conversation paused as he limped toward the back door.

"Gregg?"

He threw a scathing glance back over his shoulder and paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"House?"

_Oh! _ _NOW you pay attention to me!_

They did not seem overly concerned … merely curious that they didn't know his purpose or where he might be going. They didn't ask.

"Bored, House?"

He answered Wilson's question with staccato jabs, not bothering to curb the querulous tone in his voice. "I'm going out back for some fresh air …"

His little force field intensified:

_Don't fuck with me!_

"Okay," from Wilson.

His mother said nothing.

No sympathy. That which he hated most galled him unmercifully when it was not offered …

_I'm_ _ fine! _

House opened the door and stepped onto the porch. He closed the door behind him as cold air slapped him in the face.

The buzz of conversation cut off abruptly. He lurched across the porch and leaned against the railing, searching for the dog and looking past the fenced-in yard toward the street.

The entire neighborhood wore the featureless pale of winter; dull colors of loneliness and enforced isolation. Exactly the way he felt: totally ignored and brushed off like a dead leaf.

House did not notice the beauty of nature's slumber, the stark montage of bare branches, pale sky and silver-grey clouds. He did not appreciate the state of quiet when humans ceased their relentless yammering and retreated for a few months inside their homes. The world was tranquil during nature's season of regrouping, setting the stage for a grand unveiling when spring came alive again.

House felt as bleak as the landscape.

Then he was joined by another unwelcome feeling: guilt.

_What makes me act like such an ass with the people I'm supposed to care about? Why is my old man suddenly making sense to me? He never made sense when he was alive._

In the yard Baxter heard House moving about, clacking his cane on the porch railing. The dog looked up from his sniffing of the ground. He turned and saw _The Master_ standing there. The dog began a rat-a-tat of joyous barking and came running …

oooooooo

"Does he behave this way often, James? I see what you mean about his need for constant attention. John was the same way sometimes. I don't want to pamper Gregg, but he seems sad and angry and barely restrained. His leg isn't good at all, is it?"

Wilson was silent for a moment, considering. Should he relate the facts about her son's miserable life as it was? Or should he soft-pedal it and reveal the truth slowly as the conversation progressed? Wilson knew he was about to venture away from small talk and begin an odyssey into the wasteland of Gregory House's cold reality. This morning they had ignored him long enough to piss him off and send him outside in a snit. It was time for truth.

"You're right about his leg. I think his pain intensifies as he grows older. I haven't accessed his general health lately, except last week when I checked the bruise on his hip. I haven't asked him for permission to probe any deeper. When he moves around without his cane, it's hard to watch. He had a few bouts of breakthrough pain awhile back, and I insisted he have an MRI. But nothing's changed. He's been actively seeking alternative methods of pain control, and some of them have been a little bizarre … bordering on illegal.

"I don't mean to be an alarmist, Blythe, but you're his mother and you have a right to know what's going on. It's not that he would ever tell you himself. God! It's like engaging in mortal combat to get him to tell _me _sometimes.

"The aspects of his life that he actually lets me in on, I can talk about. Others I can't.

I have a responsibility as his friend and primary physician. You already know he pretty much lives for his work. The challenges, the puzzles. Scoping out the answers, the solutions. Sometimes I think it's the only thing that sustains him and gives him pleasure.

"He has no friends to speak of. Says he doesn't need them. Says any kind of steady relationship is more than he can handle right now. The challenge of his job saps his energy and exhausts him to the point of collapse. But it's the work that gives him the will to keep going and bully his way through. You do understand, don't you?"

Blythe House's face was beginning to cloud with Wilson's confirmation of things she had long suspected. She did not, however, allow herself to lose composure. "Everything you say makes sense, James. Gregg always was a private person and I have no reason to believe he's changed that much over the years. He was always incredibly brilliant, but looked upon by most others as unforgivably strange. People never understood or even believed the levels on which his mind operates. Sometimes I wasn't even sure if I did!

"He was tainted early by the military discipline. We all were. Even when John and I were first married, John had this harshness about him that was difficult to understand. His ideas about self-control and honor hardened Gregg to the point that after the age of about seven, I never saw him cry again. Crying was not considered by the Marine Corps to be 'manly'. The Cold War was going on then, and John carried on his own Cold War at home."

Wilson looked up and away from her pleasant face, blotched now; near tears and haloed by bright sunlight. His eyes tracked across the buttery walls and beyond the yellow café curtains with sunflowers along the hems. He waited, pouring the last of the coffee, and let her regain her composure. Sunlight tracked across the kitchen floor, past gleaming stainless steel appliances, to the dust-moted light rays that streamed through the kitchen window. He felt a sting behind his retinas, but clamped down fiercely, wondering how far he might make it into this discussion before he had to get up and walk away to mask his own emotions.

Seven years was a very raw age for a child to make a decision never to cry again. Wilson began to have some inkling about the reality of House's professed hatred of his father.

"Did he and his dad ever have _any _good times together?" Wilson asked suddenly, shifting his attention back to the moment.

Blythe nodded. "Oh yes. Many. The times when John was able to get away on extended leave and be just a husband and a dad for awhile … or the downtime between postings when we had to pull up stakes and get ready to move to a new base … a new town … sometimes even a new country. We had to do that many times during John's career. We had some good family times back then … all of us working together because it was necessary. John would lighten up during those times, and it seemed almost like 'three of us against the world.'"

"It was a difficult life though, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it was."

Blythe looked away from Wilson's kind face and down to her hands, splayed on the table, consciously keeping them away from her eyes. She fingered her engagement and wedding rings for a moment. She must soon summon courage to remove them and put them to rest. Their symbolism had passed away along with John, and her loaded ring finger almost seemed like a bid for sympathy.

_Sometimes the things you desire most are the things you receive least …_

Wilson watched her fidget while his instincts filled him in on what she must be thinking. "Was he a good husband?"

Blythe thought about the question for a moment, soft hazel eyes searching the kindly brown; wondering what he knew, if anything. She smiled sadly. "As I said, we had many good times. John could be very loving. But as Gregg is today, he was then. He got lost in his work, and that was all that mattered. He didn't even know he had a wife and son sometimes. We didn't always get along.

"So, to answer your question: no, not really. He was a soldier first. I learned to live with it, but Gregg never did. I had my piano pupils to occupy me and give me the pleasure of accomplishment. I had a house to keep up and a child to raise who was far smarter than me. I taught him piano to release some of his pent-up energy, and he soon progressed to the point where he left me far behind. He was composing his own music long before he reached his teens. He had his books and his contact sports and this … _voracious_ …appetite for information, and he hated being ignored."

"He still hates being ignored," Wilson mused aloud, "except when he _wants_ to be. I guess it goes back to the times when he needed a dad, and all he got was a drill sergeant. "'I'm complicated'. He said that to a patient once, and it's true. His brain is like a rat maze, and he's his own worst enemy. He wants to know _everything. _Doeverything.

He goes to great lengths … sometimes dangerous ones … to find out what he wants to know. He's endangered his own life at least half a dozen times since I've known him, just experimenting with some screwball idea to prove a point … prove a new method of treatment … or disprove one.

"He's taken foolish chances for his patients … and for me. He's ended up in intensive care twice. One time he burned his own hand so badly that it cracked and peeled. He says all he cares about is solving the puzzle. He says everybody lies … but he lies more than anyone. I know he cares deeply. He's devastated when a patient dies, but if asked about it, he shrugs and walks away. Says the job is over, the patient is killed or cured. Boring.

"I _know_ he cares, Blythe … but it's like he's ashamed to be caught at it. He makes fun of me when I tell him I care about people. He says I subscribe to the 'Dr. Welby' brand of medicine. Maybe I do. When I asked him what brand of medicine he subscribes to, he tells me: 'Dr. Frankenstein'. How do you argue with that? I've yelled at him, screamed at him, argued until I'm blue in the face. He doesn't back down." Wilson spread out his hands in a helpless gesture. "I think he needs a keeper instead of a friend."

They were quiet for a moment. Contemplative. Exchanging glances, knowing the conversation was running out of steam. There were no easy answers.

Blythe picked up her coffee cup and turned it clockwise between her fingers. The cup

was cold. She looked across at Wilson, also thumbing a cold cup. "I think we need a break," she said. "Gregg is outside with no coat on. I'm going to check on him."

Wilson sighed. House had won another round easily with nothing but a half hour of

cold weather and stubborn silence.

Blythe pushed back her chair and stood, then bent down again to scoop up her son's dropped napkin. "And I need to get dressed. I look a fright!" She walked to the back door and peeked through the curtains. "He's sitting out there on the porch steps," she said. "Talking to Baxter. Funny thing is … that fool dog looks as though he's listening to every word …"

For a moment Wilson was stunned. She wasn't going to step outside with a warm jacket, or to otherwise "baby" him. She had changed her mind. She was allowing him as an adult to make his own choices.

A strange feeling of _déjà vu _swirled in Wilson's head.

_This is getting interesting._

oooooooooooo

127


	21. Chapter 21

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 21

"Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy"

On the back porch:

House's fingers tightened on the cane in panic when he saw the dog look up quickly and discover him standing there. Baxter gathered himself, galloped across the yard and sailed gracefully across the wheelchair ramp and onto the porch in a single leap.

Unsteady as Gregg felt at that moment, fear of being slammed backward by the tawny body punched a hole in the pit of his stomach. Feverishly, he gripped the porch railing in front of him.

Baxter never connected.

The palpable vulnerability of this human caused him to check his momentum before he joyfully planted both forefeet in the middle of House's chest. Puzzled, Baxter twisted to the side, missing his target by inches. He turned around and looked over at House more closely, sniffing at the human's rigid defensive posture. The odor, his nose told him, was fear. House's eyes were clasped so tightly closed that his brows were millimeters from the bridge of his nose, uselessly shielding himself from an onslaught that never came.

When House dared look again, Bax sat beside him staring up with a doggie face that suggested mute apology. House frowned and loosened his death grip on the rail. Did

this strange moment mean he was going to hear the Colonel voice again?

_Auditory morphine hallucinations?_

The spectral whisper that slipped gently into his mind assured him that the Colonel was indeed cruising for another go-around. Baxter looked slightly confused, but his long whiskered face was a perfect parody of John House's familiar cynical, disapproving glare. Gregg did not have to see his father's actual countenance to know the old man

was sitting in front of him looking like a shaggy mutt, eyebrows and all. Gregg felt a

stab of remorse for insulting the dog …

"_Sorry son … I didn't mean to scare you like that. I would never hurt you … not on purpose anyway. Baxter seems to like you for some reason I haven't figured out yet. _

_You okay?"_

The familiar gruff drawl that ricocheted inside his skull inspired an instant of surging anger. House felt an overpowering urge to draw back his fist and land a blow that would send the poor dog ass-over-tincup off the porch into the middle of the yard. God, how he needed to be free of this crap and leave these impossible brain farts behind!

The desire to get away was overwhelming. Heart racing, he felt his body trying to pump up the way it did before his infirmity chained him to earth. He felt the rush of blood through his veins in a viscous torrent, straining against physical limitations. Only thing wrong with that was …

oooooooo

The last time he'd been able to 'run' was the summer he'd been freed from pain by the ketamine treatment. One bullet just below his rib cage, and another one that could have blown his brains out, had frightened the bejazus out of him. The experience resulted in a concerted effort to initiate some semblance of physical and mental recovery and reenter the mainstream of life.

Pushing himself relentlessly, he'd managed a minor miracle for awhile. He began to walk without a trace of the limp. Then the ketamine's promise showed signs of failure. His leg hurt again. Grew weak again. The damaged muscles began to spasm again. And Wilson insisted he must keep pushing; keep the remaining healthy muscles limber so they could take over the work of the ones surgically removed.

Which proved impossible, even though he gave it his best try.

He pushed. The pain pushed harder and began to take over his life again. He tried to

respond to Wilson's constant lecturing and insistence that he could do it. Wilson just couldn't let go

_Best friend? _

Did Wilson simply _hate_ him thatmuch? Or did Wilson actually _care _about him that much? He honestly didn't know, and it had long ceased to make sense. He lied about

the amount of effort he was putting forth and thought the hell with it.

After the ketamine failed completely and the pain came surging back, he began to sense an almost visible contempt emanating from his subordinate team. They thought he was gold-bricking. Cuddy was a bit more indulgent, but she was unhappy with him too. The feeling of disapproval in the air around him made him more determined than ever to prove every damned one of them wrong.

He procured a stash of Vicodin which he hid all over his apartment just like the last time. He concealed a stash of morphine in a box atop the bookcase. No one knew, or even guessed.

He began to work out on the hospital's heavy exercise machines until his shoulders and abdominal muscles weighed like lead. His legs felt like they were made of clothesline rope. He rode out the resulting agony in a swirling hot tub and began losing more weight until his skin turned a sickly shade of pale. He kept pushing, even against his own better judgment. He knew he was right and they were wrong. Why was he doing it? He was killing himself … and for what?

He fell into permanent exhaustion day after day, week after week. He abused his stinging thigh muscles until even the healthy ones screamed in agony and he was ready to drop. Vicodin and morphine use couldn't hide the change from prying eyes.

Wilson continued to plead with him, accusing him of giving up too easily, which made him more and more angry and more and more depressed.

'_My leg hurts …'_

'_How bad?'_

'_Bad enough that I would tell you …'_

Finally, what little remained of his stamina dwindled to nothing.

The closest he'd come to' running' that summer, was a clumsy lopsided lope he'd managed to sustain as he plodded his torturous way between home and the hospital.

Sweaty and bedraggled, he'd given it his best shot. His body tried in vain to keep

up the pace, but the constant burn in his thigh consumed him from the inside out.

It was painful to the touch … and crooked and scarred and wasted and ugly and

weak.

He did not mention that part.

It was as far as he got.

The pain and the limp came back with a vengeance shortly afterward.

As did the cane. He told nobody about that one either. Just showed up at work so lame that he could barely walk, while staff stared at him with open mouths. That included Wilson and Cuddy and the younger ones. He lived on the Vicodin he kept hidden at home.

Another failure.

_Yeah, walk it off! Right!_

Nobody GOT IT! Nobody could walk in his shoes!

oooooooo

House leaned against the porch rail and drew a ragged breath, finding himself close to tears. He stared down at the dog, who still looked back with that … "_what?" _… surprised expression on his furry face.

House straightened and grasped the cane more securely in his hand. He looked at Baxter again with a watery expression that was more grimace. The situation nearly made him throw back his head and laugh out loud in defiance of the mounting irony ...

"Yeah," he said, finally. "You scared the crap out of me … _Dad! _Right now I've got to sit down. Care to accompany me to the edge of the ramp?"

"_Sure … but I said I was sorry. Jesus!"_

"Yeah … I heard you!"

House made his way across the porch and eased down at the spot where the ramp met the steps that ran beside it. He grasped his leg beneath the adductors and positioned it before him on the next step down, dropping the cane and leaning a weary elbow across his upraised left knee. His hip throbbed and he began to knead his thigh. This morning's morphine injection was wearing off quickly now, and his Vicodin supply was still inside on the kitchen island.

"I guess this is gonna be a heart-to-heart between 'Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy', huh?"

"_If that's the way you want it …" _said the voice in his head, and Baxter licked his chops, still looking interested. The dog plopped his furry butt at House's side and hesitated a moment.

Then: _"Are you in a lot of pain right now? You have to tell me, cause I don't know."_

House grimaced and glared upward into the winter sky. His 'dad' simply didn't get it either. Never had. "You always said I should walk off the damned limp." House's strong fingers dug into craters of wasted muscle as the ache gained momentum and spread downward. "Are you looking for a pound of flesh? If that's what you want, you're more than welcome to as much of mine as you can handle."

"_Y'know, Gregg, you always did piss me off when you avoided a direct question. You'd pretend not to hear, and you'd look at me like I was an insect while you thought up some smartass answer. You know that shit gets ALL after awhile?"_

"Probably not as 'all' as it used to get when you cuffed me on the head, no matter what answer I gave you. And yes … I'm in pain. So what?"

"_I never hurt you when I cuffed you, dammit. And you know it. And I only ever really cuffed you once. Are you going to make this conversation about all the small shit?"_

"What you call the 'small shit' is the shit that mounts up. You made me what I am, you know. It started that day you backhanded me and I flew across the room. Are you calling that kind of shit 'the small shit'?"

"_I didn't hurt you! You pissed me off when you told me to go fuck myself. Three-year-olds don't get to say that to their fathers …"_

"Oh crap! I said it because I heard _you_ say it, and I wanted to be like you, I guess. Like father, like son. See? I'm a lot like you, and GOD I hate that."

"_You knew swear words were off limits from the day you were born … and we both knew damn well you were testing me … so don't hand me that, Gregg!"_

"Whatever …"

"_Yeah …whatever! That's a stupid-ass word. You want to know what WHATEVER means in my book?"_

"Not particularly. But I'm sure you're going to tell me anyway."

"_It's like flicking somebody off without flicking somebody off … if you get my drift?"_

"Yeah … you're right. That's exactly what it means! So consider yourself flicked off, why don't ya …"

"_I still think you need to check yourself into rehab to get loose of the damned drugs. They'll kill you, you know. I don't want you to die …"_

House's chin dropped to his chest. Humiliated, he felt again the sting of hated emotion behind his eyes. Only Blackjack House could make him feel like this.

He nodded once, hardly able to get the words out.

"I know you don't, Dad …"

oooooooo

Blythe moved again to the kitchen door, peering through the glass at her son. She had discarded the robe from earlier, and was clad in dark slacks and a brown turtleneck shirt.

Gregg still sat on the porch floor with both feet propped on the steps next to the wheelchair ramp. His right hand kneaded his ruined thigh roughly. His face was set in an expression of half pain, half anger. She could see his left hand gesturing at the dog beside him, and she could see his mouth moving. She could not tell what he was saying, or hear the sound of his voice.

He was wearing only blue jeans and sneakers with a tee shirt top, and it was cold out there. Her gaze wandered and came to rest on the inside bend of his left elbow. Something was smeared there, forming a dark circle on his skin. She wondered what it was, and if it might be what it looked like ...

Wilson walked up behind her and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. "What are you looking at so intently?" He asked, knowing exactly what it was that drew her interest.

"There's something on his arm," she said at length. "Can you see it from where you are? I'm not sure … but it looks like a bruise. He's just sitting there in the cold … talking to the damn dog!"

Blythe turned toward Wilson with half a frown on her face. "Is he all right, James? Don't you think we should call him inside to warm up? He's beginning to worry me." She looked the rest of the way over her shoulder to meet Wilson's dark, brooding depths.

Wilson knew better than to try to bluff this woman. She was, after all, House's mother, and like him, did not suffer fools gladly. Instead he squeezed her shoulder for a moment and backed off, walking over to perch on one of the counter stools.

"If it would ease your mind, then yes … we should drag his butt inside to get warmed up. Also, I think you're right about the spot on his arm. I believe he gave himself an injection this morning … for the pain in his leg and hip. He probably needs to rest. If you like, I'll go out and get him."

"Would you, James? I'd be so grateful. I know he wouldn't appreciate it if I did it.

And I don't want to baby him …"

Wilson smiled to himself where she wouldn't see his eyes. He moved off the stool and walked over to open the door. He stood for a moment, pausing with his hand on the knob. "He won't appreciate my interference either, but right now I think I could handle him with one hand tied behind my back."

Wilson pulled open the door and stepped out onto the back porch; closed the door behind him. He pulled himself to his full height and squared his shoulders. He was very aware of Blythe who watched intently from inside.

House looked around, suddenly wary again. His eyes were twin slits of icy, transparent light.

_Oh here we go …_

"You should come in now," Wilson said calmly.

House's eyebrows rose in a challenging manner. "Ya think?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Give me a hand up then, willya?"

Wilson was so surprised that he nearly fell over backward. Wordlessly he picked up the discarded cane from the porch floor and handed it to his friend.

House accepted it in silence and switched it to his right hand, positioning the tip next to his right foot.

Wilson grasped House's left hand and hauled him slowly upright.

Together they headed back to the warmth of the house.

Baxter followed closely.

Blythe stepped back to allow them entrance …

oooooooooooo

134


	22. Chapter 22

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 22

"Interlude"

2:30 p.m.

House's expensive shoes tripped him when Wilson's hand reached to pull open the door to the kitchen. Baxter ran into the backs of House's legs. House grabbed the doorframe with both hands and Wilson grabbed House's arm to steady him. All thoughts of snappy one-liners calculated to piss Wilson off, vanished as he scrambled frantically to keep his balance.

"Baxter, go down in the yard and do your business!" Wilson said sharply to the dog.

Baxter halted and looked at Wilson, looked at House, turned around and went back down the ramp in the direction of the front yard. Wilson turned back to his friend. "Are you all right?"

House glared at Wilson with eyes as hard as blue steel. "Yeah," he hissed and said something else under his breath as he stood hunched against the siding.

"What?" Wilson asked, slowly letting go of his friend's sleeve.

"I said I tripped over my own feet. It's cold. Let's just go in."

"What was that all about … over there?" Wilson asked.

"What was _what_ all about?"

"You and the dog. Awhile ago it looked like you were into some kind of Vulcan mind meld. Did you and Baxter take a detour to a galaxy far far away, or what?"

"We took a left turn at the Twilight Zone, Wilson. Don't worry about it. I came out here for a little privacy, but no one ever minds his own business … maybe I wanted to commit suicide by freezing myself to death in the back yard! What do you want from me?"

"House, stop that kind of talk. Your mother is concerned that you don't have a coat on, and it's too damn cold out here. Come on in and warm up."

"My mother babies me. I thought I told you that a long time ago. I'm fine. Get lost, Wilson. Go out in the yard and lift your leg on a bush. I don't care."

Wilson stood still. "Come on, House. Who do you think you're kidding? This is me. I don't like being stonewalled."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It _means _… the shot you gave yourself when you sneaked back to the bedroom this morning wore off faster than you expected."

The ensuing silence was cloying.

Then: "Why can't you just leave things alone?"

"Because it gives me such great pleasure to see you writhing in pain, you ass!" Wilson snarled. "I don't know who you think you're fooling. Not your mother, not me."

"It was worth a try. It's not your business … not your leg …"

Wilson grimaced. Even the small admission was a major concession. He sighed. "For what it's worth," he said at length, "you _are_ my business. You're _always _my business.

I forced you into this trip, not because I wanted to hurt you, but in hopes you would make peace between your mother and yourself. I would like for us to leave here next weekend with some sense of accomplishment. It's up to you. Do it … or don't. Come on, she's waiting for you."

The pain in House's leg spiked and he shifted position. "Ow …" Sparks of anger left his eyes, replaced by grudging acknowledgment. He knew there were no easy answers. He hesitated, looking doubtful. "God, I hate this! _Hate _it! It strips every shred of pride from a man …"

Wilson nodded, backing off a step. "I know," he finally said. He reached to touch House's upper arm lightly again in mute support. "You're cold. Come on."

House acknowledged with a quick downward thrust of his chin. "Yeah ..."

"Shall I call the dog?"

"I don't care …do what you want."

"Here Bax … come on, boy."

Baxter ran through the yard and bounded up the ramp. He halted at House's side and thrust his cold nose into House's free hand.

House took a step toward the door.

Blythe was waiting.

It was silent in the kitchen, but the smells of breakfast were still strong. The room was fragrant with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. House glanced toward the pot with longing. He made his way to the table and sat down hard in the same chair he'd vacated an hour before. Wilson exchanged glances with Blythe. A moment after House sank down, a steaming cup of coffee appeared at his elbow.

He looked up suspiciously. No one was acting solicitous or patronizing. He let himself return to the brisk massage of the aching thigh muscle. Neither his mother nor his friend had done anything to deserve his crappy attitude. His failed efforts to prove some kind of stupid point had fallen flat and had done nothing but cause more pain all around.

"Thanks, Mom," he finally said. "Smells good."

"You're welcome, dear. Are you ready to eat something now?"

His eyes squeezed shut for an instant. "Yeah. It's getting colder out there. I should have worn my jacket. Guess winter's really digging in." He hung the cane over the back of his chair and folded both hands around the welcoming heat of the coffee cup.

An awkward span of silence followed as Blythe filled a plate and set in in front of him.

Wilson declined a fresh cup of coffee when Blythe offered to pour him one. "I really should go back and finish straightening the bedroom. It looks kind of like a train wreck back there …"

"That's the truth …" House intoned under his breath as he crunched a slice of bacon.

Wilson ignored the jibe, excused himself, and walked toward their shared quarters.

oooooooo

Turning the corner from the long hallway and walking to his bed, James Wilson could

not account for the prickly feeling that slithered along his spine. House was suddenly accommodating, and it didn't ring true. There must be something on his friend's mind that was driving him to distraction, and he didn't know how to bring it up. James felt a strong uneasiness. Perhaps if he hung out back here long enough, meaningful conversation might tumble out of the awkward silence he'd left behind in the kitchen.

He knew it was a lot to expect, knowing House's reluctance to speak of private matters or any subject that embarrassed him. At odd moments during their friendship, Gregg would sometimes mumble a brief complaint; a few conversational fragments concerning his father's misdeeds and his mother's blind tolerance. Wilson often had to guess what it was that House was actually talking about, but he would listen patiently, knowing how difficult it was for the man to open up.

Distracting himself, he gathered all the rumpled pieces of soiled clothing and tossed them in a heap on House's bed. If given time alone, perhaps Blythe could approach her son about his father in a manner that Gregg could handle, thus giving himself permission to speak frankly.

Pausing to think further for a moment, it suddenly occurred to Wilson that he had no

idea whether Blythe realized that Gregg knew John wasn't his real dad.

It also occurred to him there was a possibility that Blythe had no idea … and if she didn't, it must be the one thing preying on House's mind to the point that it had turned physical and was causing all that extra pain in his leg.

Psychosomatic.

_Aha!_

John had always known he wasn't House's biological father, and had had to admit it after Gregg confronted him in a screaming match so many years before. When Blythe told John she was pregnant, he was mad as hell because it meant she'd stepped out on him at least once. Maybe more.

House had inferred that Blythe had to have had at least a one night stand with the guy he'd pointed out the day of John's viewing.

And that meant ….

_Oh … shit!_

It meant that House had been right.

Except for one thing: John had later stepped up to the plate and not let on that he knew his wife had messed around with somebody else. Blackjack House … that harsh, loud, overbearing jackass of a USMC Gyrene … had been more of a man than anyone ever realized.

_Wow!_

_Blythe might still believe that her husband was her son's biological father. So the tall white-haired Sean-Connery-looking retired General at John's funeral actually was House's real dad … just as House had figured out when he was only twelve years old._

_Was John House sterile then? Was he? And had he never told anyone? He must have known all those many years ago about the circumstances of his son's birth, and carried it quietly all the way to his grave. _

_Oh my God …_

Wilson walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He hoped any conversation between House and his mom would not accidently disclose who it was Blythe had slept with other than her husband. There could be red faces all around.

It was funny, but it was not.

_Jesus! House had been handed a burden that no one should have to live with._

Wilson lingered in the bath, worrying, biting his lip absently, gathering damp towels and shoving them into the hamper. He wiped down the sink and the toilet tank with one of the big washcloths. He straightened the rug on the floor and stretched out the shower curtain. When everything was just so, he took the hamper into the bedroom and added the dirty clothing from the surface of House's bed. His mind was disjointed at the moment, not knowing what to busy himself with next. He returned to the bathroom and stared briefly at his reflection in the mirror. His baby fine hair stood up like barbed wire. He picked up a comb and ran it through …

_There now!_

Wilson wondered what the rest of this interesting week would possibly bring. One thing was for sure: Blythe House was turning into quite an interesting lady. Demure service wife? Perhaps. But she certainly was not the shrinking violet she'd appeared to be at first glance. He guessed that even demure service wives tended to get bored when their husbands were out flitting around all over hell in the wild blue yonder.

Wilson found himself ruminating further as he turned on the exhaust fan and it cleared the mirror. His face stood out starkly in the middle of a circle of glass like a vignette photograph. He could use a shave. He decided the hell with it … House wasn't the only one who could choose to be scruffy.

He took his time and smoothed his jeans and tee shirt. It was nice to shuck the restrictions of formal suit and tie and just be comfortable. He turned around and checked out the bathroom again. It was gleaming. He turned off the exhaust fan and the lights and returned to the bedroom. He straightened the covers on his bed and House's, and sat down for a few minutes. Their overnighters still lay open beside the chair by the window, and his sense of responsibility nagged at him to put them away out of sight. He zipped both and carried them to the closet. He knew he was obsessing, but he couldn't help it. He wondered what was going on in the kitchen …

Wilson opened the closet door and studied the small space. Something he might have missed, had he not paused to look closer, stood in the corner against the wall. It was a student guitar, a nice little instrument with nylon strings. He set the overnighters inside and picked it up; ran his hands over it fervently. It was badly out of tune, but that was easily remedied.

He closed the door and carried it back to the bed, working with the tuning heads. The strings tightened quickly. This must have been House's first guitar. Wilson ran his

hand along the frets and felt the music just waiting there to be coaxed into the open. Something simple: He plucked it, one clumsy chord at a time, and then added his soft tenor to form words.

A few minutes later he sensed a scuffle of movement at the door.

Wilson glanced up, startled.

Blythe, with Baxter by her feet, smiled in at him.

House leaned into the doorjamb, eyebrow arched nearly to his hairline. "You never told me you played!" He growled.

Wilson stared through a fringe of silken forelock and thick, dark lashes. It was rather pleasant to throw his friend off guard with a single moment of one-upmanship.

He shrugged …

oooooooooooo

140


	23. Chapter 23

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 23

"A Story of Gregg and Blythe and John, but Mostly Gregg"

January 18,

Late afternoon:

Gregory House sat at the kitchen table, motionless, both feet wrapped around the chair legs, fingers entwined around a cold, nearly empty coffee cup. His face was a study in pale porcelain. His delicately chiseled features lay twisted with concentration like the north face of an old tree covered in moss. One could sense the aura of tight restraint,

and if one paid close attention, the conscious alignment of his body became discernible. Misery lay etched deeply into his rigid posture.

House did not wish to be observed. He did not want to be spoken to, or touched, or offered any token of kindness. He wanted to fade away to invisibility, but since that

was quite impossible, he willed himself instead to diminish, like sunset into darkness,

and merge with the pattern of the wallpaper.

Across from him his mother sat silent, but he could feel her eyes upon him like lances of fire on his averted face. He held his breath, dreading the flow of words that would surely follow soon.

Gregg's long fingers laced through the mug's handle to come together on the other side. He might shatter the ceramic without even knowing; his hands were that cold.

Blythe sat still and watched him. If he did not want to talk, fine. She could wait. The table was small enough that she could reach across it and place her hand gently over his wrist, if she was inclined to do so. She waited a little longer, and then reached out.

House's body recoiled fractionally when her hand touched his. It was like an electric shock upon his skin. His nerves were coiled wires. Deep in his gut the grandfather of Gordian knots tightened around his stomach. He would surely cease to breathe. The last thing he needed was a heart-to-heart talk with this woman. If he unleashed any of the vitriolic garbage inside his head, he would certainly regret it. She did not deserve to wallow in his dark circle of torment.

After an undetermined march of minutes, Blythe finally spoke. "You're like ice!" She scolded him. "You went outside on purpose and risked hypothermia because you were afraid of what someone might say?"

He looked up at her sharply. How could she know that? Had she spoken to Wilson? Of course she had … who was he kidding? He lowered his forehead almost to the top of the coffee cup, but could not answer. He closed his eyes and hid inside his mind to keep from blurting out the wrong, hurtful words …

When next he looked up, she had gone away somewhere, swept away the cold plate of food and withdrawn from him, and he hadn't even realized she was no longer present. His body was like a violin string, tightened to snapping. He couldn't relax, couldn't speak, couldn't think; only gaze down at the blandness of the tabletop.

Gregory House was not one to give in to strong emotion, unless of course, it was anger. His throat felt constricted as a clogged drain and he could feel pressure building in his sinuses. He swallowed convulsively, but it was no good. He was losing ground. His eyes began to fill and his nostrils tickled with moisture.

_Jesus! Not this!_

Today was becoming unmanageable. His damaged thigh muscle was contracting into hard sinewy strings, and his insides were churning. His hand flew to his leg, tightening his fingers like a vise into the painful tissue.

Wilson was still deep in the bowels of the big house … doing who-the-hell- knew-what back there.

His mother had deserted him. He could feel gooseflesh popping out across his shoulders, along his arms and torso. His belly felt like a storm-tossed sea. His bladder was full and he was freezing to death.

Meanwhile, here he sat … crying in his beer ...

Beyond the ability to control himself, he wept in silence. In the dark canyons of his mind he was three years old … transported backward in time by some strange out-of-body conversation with his mom's dog.

oooooooo

_He was playing with his toys on the floor of the small living room in their base housing unit. _

_His father had arrived home unexpectedly from one of those places he went to fly his airplanes. John scooped him playfully into his arms, seeking his attention, but all Gregg wanted was to be put down by this man who was becoming more of a stranger to him each day. He lashed out petulantly and suddenly found himself careening across the floor ..._

_He looked up in tears from behind the stinging brush burn on his cheekbone. He had never been struck in anger before, and he could not fathom what he might have done to deserve such treatment ..._

_His father towered over him, both arms flailing. He was not playful anymore. He was shouting something incomprehensible. His mother stood rooted; horrified but silent._

_This angry stranger he was supposed call "Daddy", always appeared out of nowhere, stayed awhile and then disappeared again. This time "Daddy" had struck him for repeating words he'd heard spoken many times before ... in jest. Gregg believed it was a joke, because all the grownups always laughed …_

_At three years of age, Gregory House received his first taste of unrestrained adult anger. If he'd_ _understood the reason for the cuff, it might have been different. A three-year-old, however, has no idea about the nuances of double entendre. Instead, the glancing blow branded itself permanently into his consciousness like the mark of ownership on a maverick calf. _

_Other incidents followed as he grew up; further humiliation for foolish youthful misdemeanors, filling his heart with anger and resentment. Corporeal punishment with no explanation. Each incident pulled father and son further apart. Gregg defied the harsh treatment, screamed epithets at the despised stranger, and the gap widened. The growing animosity between himself and John alienated them and drove the original wound that much deeper. _

_Dad called it "discipline". As always, his mother stood by and wrung her hands and murmured platitudes, hesitating to step between them. Sometimes he wondered if she ever loved him at all._

_He spent hours pounding at the piano, composing raunchy tunes and committing them to memory. Sometimes he locked himself in his room, picking his guitar or playing LP records; pouring over every medical text he could lay hands on. When John came home from assignment or TDY, Gregg became an empty hole in the midst of his family._

_Years passed and he ignored John more and more, as though his father didn't exist. They communicated in monosyllables, if at all, and only when absolutely necessary. Gregg lived in his bedroom, or hung out at the more tranquil homes of friends._

_One day he discovered a complicated college text on genealogy. He began reading _

_and studying and thinking. As time passed his thinking grew darker and his suspicions became aroused. Digging deeper, he managed to get himself locked overnight in the medical records quadrant of the base's personnel section on the pretense that he was staying at the home of a friend. _

_There, in the darkened base records room, reading by flashlight, Gregg discovered an old medical file from the mid 1950s. John House wasn't his biological father. John wasn't anybody's biological father! House thought about his recent encounter with Neela Stratton and decided his suspicions then, had been confirmed. John's 'pink cigar' had never emitted anything but burnt embers. Gregg was jubilant at first and then confused about what this said about himself and his parents. _

_One night, after another severe tongue lashing from his father, Gregg spilled everything in a virtual screaming match that fortunately, Blythe was not at home to hear. John was stunned speechless. Thereafter they spoke not a word to one another. When Gregg got into scrapes at school or in the neighborhood, John's corporeal punishments got more and more ... "original"._

_Gregg's twelfth summer was a living hell for them both, but Gregg never told anyone else about the things he had found. Quietly he set about discovering, as he told himself: "the real deal" …_

_Who in hell WAS he?_

_Gregory House kept his alarming discovery bottled up inside for over three decades._

_When he became a doctor, Gregg did not go back to his parents' home for years at a time. _

_Fuck 'em! Fuck 'em all!_

_oooooooo_

Reality returned quickly with the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Gregg raised his hands to knuckle away the humiliating moisture from his cheeks. He hunched his shoulders further inward and glanced about furtively. He pushed the empty coffee cup to the middle of the table.

Blythe was coming down the steps with a soft grey blanket folded over her arm. She walked deliberately in his direction.

He _so_ wanted to deny any need to be bundled into a blanket like a fretful child.

_Nooo … no-no-no-no … _

But an immutable longing to be comforted overpowered every sense of denial he could muster. He sat still, bowing his head to hide any residual evidence of moisture that might remain upon his cheeks.

Blythe enfolded his upper body in a cocoon of warmth and quiet compassion. For a single moment he perceived himself an infant, wrapped in the protective arms of its mother. He drew the edges of the blanket closer around himself and felt the loving pressure of Blythe's arms.

Bitter remnants of old memories slid away gradually when he felt those soft hands cup his cold cheeks and gently lift his head upward. He opened moist eyes and focused on her pleasant features, only a breath away. She moved boldly into his space, coaxing his face nearer, and placed a kiss lightly in the middle of his forehead. She made no mention of the moisture that still clung to his long lashes.

Blythe stepped back quickly, lest he pull away from her in startlement. Businesslike, she picked up his coffee mug, dumped its residue into the sink and refilled it from the pot. She placed it, steaming and fragrant, in front of him.

"This one you drink while it's hot."

Their eyes met in a moment of heightened perception, and Gregg felt the humiliating taint of tears slip silently away. She would not remind him of his own vulnerability.

One side of his thin-lipped mouth curled upward for a heartbeat, deepening the dimple there.

To Blythe, the gesture was all she needed. A smile from her son was a treasure once lost, and now regained.

Gregg watched as she returned to the island counter to refill her own cup.

"Mom … ?"

"What, dear?"

"Bring my pills along over, would you?"

The bottle of Vicodin was close to the coffee pot. Blythe curled her fingers around it, well aware of the medication's potency. She wished it were profitable to manufacture drugs that were safe, and still alleviate the torture of his pain. She hated these risky and dangerous medicines that took such a heavy toll on people in fragile health.

There was so much she still needed to say to Gregory; so many questions to ask. But she

was still afraid. John House's iron-willed legacy lived on within both of them. Blythe had a long history of hesitating until it was a moment too late, and then as usual, opting to keep quiet. She'd always feared that to travel further along this road of threadbare honesty would lock Gregg forever into tight-lipped silence.

It was the story of her life: waiting. Hanging back. Dutiful wife. Doormat. Soothing the waves and calming the waters, and to what end? She did not wish for Gregg to vent his long-pent-up road rage and spoil whatever chance they might have to put things right.

"Of course, darling," she finally replied.

He reached outside the blanket and took the small plastic vial from her hand. He shook it vigorously before thumbing open the top to slip a dose into his palm.

"Thanks."

His thoughts were the same as hers had been earlier: _Pain relief without manifest physical consequence. Well, good luck with that!_ He realized the pills would eventually destroy him. His liver would go, and his kidneys. He did not mention it. Why bother? It had

become the story of his life long before this.

_Silence gives consent. Don't ask, don't tell!_ _Don't say anything that will make you vulnerable. Don't apologize for this overwhelming weakness, or you'll never stop apologizing for the rest of your life …_

_Irony on a grand scale._

Blythe watched him closely, pretending to concentrate on her coffee. Did he realize all her attention was tuned to his tiniest response? His eyes were focused away, but she could tell his every nerve ending was on red alert, dreading what she might say next.

Wasn't it time to tear down the wall of doubt his father had built between them?

She saw Gregg grimace as he threw back his head and took two of the pills dry. She shuddered.

At that moment, Blythe House came to a crossroads. Her stomach clenched with indecision she wasn't sure how to breach. Somehow she must make a connection with her son; this most human of all beings. She took a deep breath and held it. Finally she asked the question which had haunted her since the time of the infarction.

"How bad _is _your pain, Gregg? Really?"

He looked up, startled. The old man had really done a number on her.

His reply was automatic. "Mom … it's not that bad, okay?"

She glared at him in silent reproach.

He returned the look.

Then her eyes softened, just as Wilson's softened when he was unduly concerned, which was most of the time; silently admonishing his friend to tell the truth. House had long understood Wilson's talent as a conniver and a manipulator. Wilson cared. Maybe it was also okay for his Mom to baby him … once in a while.

Blythe's face tightened. He had answered her question with denial. Was he trying to save her from worry … or _what?_ Didn't he have any idea he was making things worse?

She saw the deepening furrows on his forehead and knew he was still considering her question. Maybe the absence of John's scorn, rebuff and denunciation was giving them courage. She spoke again.

"You're bullshitting me, Gregory. You've been bullshitting me so long that I wonder if either of us can ever discuss the truth. We've danced around this issue forever. You know I love you, and I'd do anything for you. _Anything! _ I hate seeing you in such pain.

I could never spar with words on the same level as you or your father. You both always out-shouted and out-gunned me on every issue, and I'd come up the loser every time."

"I know," he finally said. "You were the peacekeeper. My fault, I guess." His words were softly spoken and filled with remorse. "I'm sorry. Some things are hard for me to talk about openly. I hid stuff inside for so long … it made me see red every time the old man and I looked at each other. I couldn't call him out in front of you because he'd get all loud and military, and it just wasn't worth it to make a scene. He never had anything positive to say. After the infarction I think he actually looked for ways to accuse me of faking, even after he saw I had a hole in my leg the size of Rhode Island:

'_Aren't you farming this thing out a little, Gregg? The wound is scarred over, for God's sake!'_

'_Why can't you walk without the freakin' limp, Gregg? All you have left is that damn scar!'_

'_Why don't you just dump the goddamn cane, Gregg? Force your leg to strengthen!'_

"Jesus! I never even wanted to be in the same room with the son-of-a-bitch. Sorry, mom."

He lowered his head over the hot coffee mug. The difficulty of his confession and open declaration was making him wary. He was not certain he could or should continue. Was it because she was his mother, and the two of them had so seldom spoken candidly? They had spent too many years in forced denial, and he wondered if they would ever be able to face the truth together.

He had tried to leave his painful past behind him …but the painful past didn't quite catch on. It only understood 'Semper Fi!' They were still under the spell of a dead man's eternal retribution.

Gregg closed his eyes tightly, willing the world to go away.

It didn't.

In confessing his inner turmoil, would his mother understand? Her son limped because he was a cripple who was ashamed of being a cripple. It wasn't some burlesque act to garner attention or applause. He couldn't abide the unrepentant stares of total strangers, or the innocent, curious questions from children. He despised being crippled. He had done nothing to deserve it.

He lifted the coffee mug and took a few swallows. It was hot and delicious going down. He felt a little warmer, a little more confident. He _owed _her. He owed his mother an honest explanation for the long periods of reticence. He took a deep breath and spoke at last, hoping for her understanding.

"Sometimes the pain is really bad, Mom ... a lot worse than I can talk about."

It took a few moments for her to realize that he was actually answering her question

concerning his condition. She felt her eyes well up, just as his had done minutes before.

When House looked at her there were tears making twin tracks down his mother's face.

"The infarction hit you out of the blue, dear ... there was no rhyme or reason. It just _was._

You fought to save your leg, and that was heroic. You fight every day to stay ahead of the pain. That's heroic too. You save your patients' lives and make no excuses for who you are. To me, that's more than heroic. That's courage above and beyond.

"Your friend James has considered you a hero for a long time, and I'd be willing to bet that he's never told you so because you would probably make fun of him. I understand

a little more than you think. I've seen his face when he looks at you. And I never … _ever_ … thought of you as a fake."

Silence settled over them slowly, and nothing could have improved on the silence. They let it fade away on its own and drank the last of their coffee.

The sword of Alexander had finally cut through the Gordian Knot.

oooooooo

Wilson sat with the little guitar across his knees, giving his stinging fingertips a minute's respite.

There was nothing but a quiet murmur emanating from the kitchen, and he was determined to allow mother and son plenty of time to talk. He knew for a fact that such a thing had not taken place between the two of them since long before he and House had even known each other.

And that was a long time.

This visit could yet turn into a revelation between his friend and what was left of his family. Then again it could turn nasty: full of bitterness and accusations.

Wilson laid down the guitar and took a break to the bathroom.

He would enjoy it thoroughly, he thought, if he could pat himself on the back for the success of this trip. If it tanked, he would just as readily feel guilty for months.

House would not let him forget it.

_Home to Mama …_

_She BABIES me!_

_Yeah, yeah, yeah …_

House might also treat him with nothing but one-upmanship and contempt.

It was all up in the air.

Wilson walked back to the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. He sighed; the long sigh of the fatally curious and the deeply overburdened.

Finally he picked up the guitar and ran his hands lightly over the smooth wood.

Noodling around with his fingers plucking the strings, he began to sing softly:

"I wandered today to the hills, Maggie,

To watch the scene below.

The field and the old rugged mill, Maggie,

Where we walked so long long ago …"

oooooooooooo

148


	24. Chapter 24

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 24

"Augie Doggie, Doggie Mommy, and Jimi Hendrix"

Late Sunday afternoon:

He knew if he sat much longer, he would probably not be able to get up. His physical limitations had been ruling his movements all day and he was sick of it. He soon needed to loosen his muscles and make another trip to the bathroom. Coffee often did that to his 'indoor plumbing'. He also needed to work the rigidity out of constricted ligaments and force his leg and hip to relax from the stubborn grip of damaged nerves.

The fact that he was sitting quietly with his mother across the table was becoming a source of mild embarrassment. If he struggled to his feet now, it would be impossible

to conceal his limitations from her discerning eyes, even though he had finally leveled with her about the extent of his pain. He could not bring himself to brush her concern aside in the same manner he so often did with others.

_Mom ... please don't look at me like that._

He was stuck between determination and indecision. His fear of pain and his mother's sentimentality kept him frozen to the spot. Silence was becoming oppressive.

When he finally reached back to grasp the cane, however, something extraordinary followed. The pain in his sore hip melted away along with the movement, as though

a flood gate had opened and all the extra pain was draining out. Not gradual, as in a

tumble of leaves across the earth, but with a sudden cessation like closing a water tap. He straightened cautiously, and felt only the familiar sting from his thigh.

Blythe saw his reaction: the astonishment he could not comb from his face quickly enough. "What was that all about?" She asked in a teasing tone. "You look as though someone just handed you a cookie …"

"Two." He said cautiously. He settled the cane into his hand and hauled himself upright. Bouncing the rubber tip on the floor at his feet, his smile was impossible to conceal.

_Small gifts …_

"Mom, could I ask you a favor?"

He was not looking down now, and she saw that he was clear eyed. Something had eased a few of the stress lines from his face.

"Anything in my power," she said. "You know that."

"Would you go to Wilson's car and get my other shoes off the back seat?"

She was out of the chair immediately, heading for the door. "Something eased up

in your leg, didn't it? Some of your pain has gone?"

He returned her look with a flash of chagrin. "Just my hip, Mom. The leg is the leg."

"Give thanks for tiny favors, darling," she said as she opened the back door and stepped out of his sight beyond it. He had no opportunity to reply. Her timing was impeccable.

She was _not_ goingto baby him, he thought. Not really. That was good.

He stood in place for a moment, running his right palm along the injured area near his hip bone. It was sore to touch, but the tightness and limited mobility he'd been experiencing for the past week was unlocking at last. The cramping in his thigh was still there. His fingers followed across the gnarled mass of crimped tendons and gnarled skin.

_Tiny favors, huh? I'll take all I can get._

He no longer felt the need to hide behind a façade of phony bravado. That stuff got old quickly, and it tired him out. His mom had showed no signs of pity; so different from all his earlier notions. This Blythe House bore small resemblance to the reticent woman he remembered from his youth. His dad's death was somehow revitalizing her, releasing her from years of ingrained habits. Strange feelings clashed with old memories in Gregg's head, and for the first time in years his aversions at being in the company of his mother began to diminish.

Conclusions he'd clutched to his breast from early childhood battled with an emergent

vista of new discoveries. Maybe Wilson's insistence on coming down here actually had

merit. Just this once.

The difficult trip may have been a good idea after all, he realized, and long overdue. He had fought it with all his energy. Now that twenty years had come and gone ... good Lord! The great Gregory House might have been wrong about a few things.

He thought of Wilson fondly: his first, best source of stubborn determination that almost matched his own. He also recalled with regret all the ways he'd fought back whenever Wilson brought up the subject of a visit to Kentucky. 'She could use your support,' Wilson had growled. 'She just lost her husband.'

"_For God's sake House … get over the pity party! You're not the only one who's hurting!"_

Wilson's candid in-your-face insistence made House realize that his stubborn, long-time bitterness, had nearly killed this chance at atonement before it began.

He was beginning to see how good it was to sit with his mom and interact one-on-one; enjoy the love that couldn't be conquered by painful history. Letting go of his need to erect barriers against the only father he'd ever known was becoming a study in emancipation. Blythe never believed for a moment that her son was a malingerer or a fake. She'd simply learned long ago how and when to keep her mouth shut.

John probably didn't believe that his son was faking either … he only wanted to make Gregg angry enough to try like hell to do what the military way would have demanded.

Actually, he and John House had a lot in common, didn't they?

Blackjack House would have said: _"Clobber the opposition first and ask questions later. Ignore criticism with cold indifference, and turn your back on any argument you can't beat to death with a stick!"_

Old-school male dominance, courtesy of the U. S. Marine Corps: _"If it dares to stand up, beat it down with a BMFH. Don't apologize for anything; it just makes you look weak."_ That kind of shit worked with the guys in the barracks and in the field, but not

so much with the wife and kid.

_Disgusting! But the old man's attitude of "shoot first and look for bodies later", pretty much describes mine too._

_Like father, like son._

_Give me a break!_

It no longer felt acceptable for Gregory House to take refuge in the silent cocoon of mental ambivalence.

"_Fish or cut bait, Gregg …" _

"_Shit or get off the pot!"_

Sometimes a death in the family brings with it incalculable revelations!

oooooooo

Blythe came in the back door with House's Nike Shox about the same moment Baxter walked up to where House stood and rested his muzzle against House's knee.

House placed his hand gently upon the dog's head and began to scratch behind soft, furry ears. Bax moaned with pleasure.

"Fancy shoes," Blythe remarked casually, closing the back door behind her. "Wow! It's cold out there."

The corners of House's mouth quirked upward for a moment. "Wilson got those for me when he came back to the hospital after Amber died. I don't know why … I haven't quite figured that out."

His head lowered in embarrassment. It still puzzled him that anyone would bother to offer him such a gift at such a time … or why he would even deign to accept it. But Wilson had, and he had. He lifted his hand from Baxter's silky ears and accepted the expensive shoes from her. "It still bothers me that it was mostly my fault Amber had

to die. She was a good match for Wilson. I never meant to put her life in jeopardy …"

"Of course you didn't. James knows that. Perhaps the shoes were his way of letting you know he understood. He knows you like them, and he cares for you, you know … more than you have any idea. He sees around all your barricades and actually likes the person you are when you're not being an idiot."

House's jaw dropped. Where in hell did she get that idea?

"Maw-aw-awmmm …"

She laughed. "It's true, silly. He told me. Now sit down and put those on before you _fall _down."

House worked slowly at getting out of one pair of shoes and into the other. "Please Mom. I know what Wilson told you. It's what he tells everyone when he thinks I'm

not looking. He protects me. He can't help himself. Truth is, I was having a really bad pain day the day of the bus accident, and I let my damn leg rule me. I left work and went straight to a bar to get drunk … drown the pain and make the world go away. The bus we were on got hit broadside and a woman died who didn't deserve to die. I caused my best friend untold grief and made him lose faith in me."

Blythe's eyes widened at his words. He had paused while changing his shoes and was staring off into the distance. She sat down across from him and looked into his face. "That must be why James was reluctant to talk to me when I called to tell him about your dad. You didn't answer your phone, so I called him instead. I told him how sad I was about the death of Amber, even though I'd never met her. He was surprised that I knew about it.

"Dr. Cuddy told me about the bus accident. She didn't want me to hear it from some other source. But I couldn't get away, dear, because your dad was dying and I couldn't leave him. 'Rock and a hard place' for all of us, I suppose. I told her about John's death, even though it didn't seem appropriate when my concern was supposed to be with you. James was very kind when we talked. He promised to drive you to the funeral. I didn't know you two had become estranged."

"Looks like there was miscommunication all around," House whispered, finally. "All

of it my fault. Those weeks were pretty muddled. Crap was piling up. I couldn't have cared less that Dad died. Not then.

"I was angry because I thought you didn't care that I was messed up. You were hurting, and I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to listen to anyone else. I have a long history of thinking about no one but me. Hell of a way for a son to act. It was probably Wilson's call to you that saved my friendship with him, and maybe ours too ... yours

and mine.

"I have to kick the Vicodin, Mom. Somehow. The drugs screw up my head and I know that. But there's nothing else that works for me, and I have to take so damn many for them to be effective. I need them. Jesus, Mom! Where's it all going to end?"

It was that touch of desperation in her son's voice that finally allowed Blythe House to let the tears fall openly.

He looked up to face her.

They hesitated.

Blythe reached for him as he pushed himself up again. She drew him gently toward her and wrapped her arms about his thin shoulders. The blanket that had warmed him crumpled to the floor and puddled around his legs and the big orange and black shoes. They both stood awkwardly; not quite groping for balance against one another. She took solace in the fact that he didn't pull away. Baxter moved back and watched curiously.

At last, House cupped his mother's cheeks gently between his palms and lowered his forehead to her fragrant hair in the most intimate gesture he had allowed himself with anyone in years.

Misery and Company constituted a strange corporation.

House finally drew away and turned to his right. Too much intimacy was making him uncomfortable. "What am I hearing?"

Blythe straightened, hoping he wasn't looking for an excuse to get away from her.

oooooooo

Wilson plucked the strings of the guitar, knowing his fingers would hurt like hell later on. Right now they were numb. He bent over the instrument, unmindful of time and his surroundings.

He closed his eyes and smiled into the air, bemused with this strange inclination to play old songs. One melody after another fell from his fingers.

_Keep yourself occupied. Give House and his mom time to get it together …_

Something in the air, changing the ambiance of the room, made him pause and look up.

A tickle of warning at the nape of Wilson's neck gave him pause.

_Thinking about them brought them to me like moths to a flame._

Wilson lowered the guitar to the surface of the bed.

He had never seen House look more stunned, and the sight of it warmed him for some strange reason. Even better, House stood nearly upright without looking pained. His cane caressed the floor easily as he leaned against the door jamb. He was wearing his

gift shoes for the first time …

Blythe and Baxter stood close, inserted boldly into House's comfort zone; she with a tiny smile on her face and Bax with a look of doggie intensity.

Wilson smiled awkwardly for a moment, staring. Something had changed between the two of them: something that gave off an air of promise …

House lifted his cane and pointed it accusingly at Wilson. "You never told me you played!"

James blinked. They had caught him in a small bubble of private enchantment. He should deflect further remarks before House turned it into a litany of nonstop bitching.

"Just never came up, I guess …"

oooooooooooo

155


	25. Chapter 25

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 25

"A Leap of Faith"

The General:

Sunday night,

January 18:

Skies to the east were darkening quickly above Route 75. The weather was a little "iffy" this late afternoon and traffic moved at a fast pace. Headlights were coming on now at 4:00 p.m. Eighteen wheelers were not out in full force yet as they generally were Sunday evenings. Closer to midnight they would dominate the highways as their drivers pushed to get cargo in on time for Monday morning's early deliveries.

Cars with families coming home from weekend excursions dotted the highway on all sides. Their drivers leaned on the gas, anxious to get tired, cranky kids home to bath

and bed before Prime Time.

A red Mazda Miata ran abreast of the overflow of Chevy SUVs, Honda Civics and big Ford pickups. Its driver decelerated and hit the right turn signal, gearing down behind an old Dodge van full of kids and dogs, in order to ease across and get off the highway at the next exit.

A tractor trailer zoomed by in the passing lane as the smaller car began its decent down the ramp. The trucker yanked on his air horn and watched from the corner of his eye as the Miata glided to a smooth stop at the red light below. Its driver's left arm came up, fingers parted in a peace sign in answer. When the light changed, the truck was long gone. The Miata made a hard left and headed toward downtown Lexington.

Gilbert M. Stratton, Brig. General, USMC, Ret., cruised down the main drag into the center of town and turned right toward home. It had been unusually warm and sunny

all day, but now the overcast sky looked as though it might start dropping a load of something wet. Gen. Stratton had been visiting the Blue Grass Army Depot a few miles south, sitting in the Officers' Lounge having brunch and drinks and hobnobbing with some very old friends.

The depot was partly decommissioned now. Even so, new retirees attached to other squads from the glory days were required to report there to sign a flock of forms and fill out the paperwork when it came through.

Walt Bishop would soon fly home to Boston, the last of "Intrinity" to finally call it a

day. Stratton had ended his military career first as Brig. General, but he was five years older than Walt and Blackjack and had moved through the ranks with astounding swiftness.

Bishop was retiring a full Bird, just as Blackjack House had done a few years before him. Which wasn't too damn shabby. Wally was the last.

Gil and Walt had come together today, maybe for the last time ever, to celebrate a final fare-thee-well and reminisce about old times. Wally had an extended family to return to. He and Connie were parents of four strapping sons, two of them twins, and all of them married with families of their own.

Today had been a bittersweet occasion, celebrating the storied life of the missing man

in their more than forty year friendship-formation. Stratton was the oldest and had retired to be a part-time Unitarian minister.

Blackjack House's recent death had been the deciding factor in Walt Bishop's decision

to finally hang up his wings too, Stratton believed. Walt was _way_ overdue.

Blackjack had been dead almost six months; the latest officer from the old squadron that Father Time finally caught up with and hustled along to the big squadron in the sky.

_How trite! _Stratton thought, resisting a wince.

oooooooo

Blackjack House been a loud-mouthed, cocky son of a bitch with a temper like Mount

Vesuvius, and balls the size of the Washington Monument. They missed him. How poignant it was for the other two old comrades to get together over Marine Cuisine and raise a glass to their fallen buddy; speak in reverent tones about old times, old missions, old escapades.

Once-hard muscles had turned flaccid; dark hair turned gray. Dress uniforms barely fit anymore, and today's Marine Corps bore little resemblance to those from the fifties and sixties. They'd been losing friends in a constant stream in recent years; ranks thinning quickly as time slipped away. It sometimes felt like a century had passed since they first donned those scratchy poopy suits and climbed aboard the Phantom F-4s that took them into perilous skies, and sometimes into the threat of combat. 

Their adventures were ancient history to the hot-dog pilots of the Twenty First century. Stealth bombers, smart bombs and attack helicopters had been only a twinkle in aviation engineers' eyes back in their day. Those times were but a distant memory. Only the strict dedication, spit and polish, and the legacy of military discipline remained the same.

Gil, Wally and Blackjack had been there for the Russian threat, the Cold War, the Viet Nam debacle and the civil rights movement. They still sneered in disdain at the uprise of 'political correctness' … and still called a spade a spade.

These days it was weary, war-torn Iraq and the bombed-out sandbox of Afghanistan. Time marched on, but war never changed. War, they knew, was profitable for a large cadre of billionaires who ran munitions factories and other such enterprises existing in and near the fringes of political power.

As young men, they had loved the danger. Death visited their ranks and cast a cold hand across the years. Now, life struggled on like a time capsule in a slipstream. Empty spaces left behind by their squad members when they were gone had been filled by others who became comrades as well. Then it pared down further until it was only the original three. They called themselves "Intrinity" for some fool reason. It had been a good life and an exciting one. In other aspects it was a sad legacy indeed.

Now, with Walt Bishop's retirement, it was over.

Years from now, today's rocket jockeys and jockettes would reminisce for _their _old soldiers whose ghosts lived only in their survivors' memories.

And so it went.

oooooooo

Gil Stratton drove slowly through the brightly lit streets of Lexington, still thinking about long-ago adventures and the places they'd seen and the barnstorming they'd done. He was glad to be headed home. He drove slowly through downtown and headed toward the outskirts.

He'd hit the road right after church this morning, and Coe would be waiting for him with supper in the oven and a warm embrace of welcome. Their oldest daughter Neela was visiting from Nebraska while husband Ben was in Paris negotiating a deal for his firm with Airbus. Their two daughters were back home in the care of Ben's parents. Neela was a busy patent attorney who had taken a well-earned week off to stay with her own parents because Gil and Coe didn't see them very often anymore.

Son Barry and fiancé Lexi might visit for a few days later this week. It was all good. At seventy-three, Gil Stratton was as content as he would ever be.

He took a right turn at the stop sign further down the block and drove past Blythe House's place. She was still a striking woman, he thought. She was a widow now, and guilty memories of her quiet beauty and his long-ago indiscretion often brought twinges of regret.

His duplicity would return to nag him again and again for the rest of his life. He knew that and accepted it because he'd spoken to his Maker about it many times. He was still bothered by the circumstances of that long-ago night. Men of his calling did not engage in such behavior, and that single incident had caused him shame and self-recrimination ever since. Fortunately his second marriage had quickly attained solid ground. He was certainly not the reckless youth he had once been, but he could not retrace his steps. There were no 'do-overs' in real life.

Gil had not talked about that night to any other human being. Not ever. He was a Marine, after all, and knew how to keep his mouth zipped, if not his pants. He had dropped out of Seminary in his third year because he could not keep his Willy from wandering, so to speak. His conscience, since those times, had been brutal.

The day of John House's funeral, Gil learned about another dark secret he could never disclose. He'd often wondered before, but now he was certain. Gregory House was his son. It was in the genes … and in the birthmarks. Coe had no idea, and he wondered if Blythe even had an inkling, since she'd always been totally dedicated to John.

It had still been an age of innocence when they'd spent the night together …

oooooooo

There was a strange car parked in Blythe House's driveway when he passed by: an elegant Volvo sedan, brand new from the look of it. It had New Jersey plates. Who

on Earth?

Sudden comprehension dawned. Gregg House must be visiting his mother.

Gil was glad Gregg was there, if that's indeed who it was. He and the younger House had seen each other last at Blackjack's viewing. The handsome lanky boy from long ago, all grown up now into a tall slender man, hadn't looked well. Gregg struggled to give his dad's eulogy and nearly broke down at the podium. He'd clammed up, turned around and limped slowly over to the huge black coffin, leaning down, maybe to kiss his father's pale forehead, maybe hiding tears …

.

That 'lanky boy' had become a prestigious diagnostics specialist at a big hospital in Princeton, New Jersey. His appearance was altered so drastically now, however, that Gil hardly recognized him when he'd showed up for the viewing. Gregg was gaunt, far older than his years, and physically dependent for his mobility on a thick, elegant-looking wooden cane.

Gil had heard that Gregg was severely injured years before in some kind of freakish accident. The younger House looked haggard and undone. Gil was taken aback because he had once been a handsome and athletic man. His short hair had thinned and bristled, and when he turned to look at the assembled gathering, Gil had glimpsed the faded rose-colored birthmark above Gregg's hairline.

_Oh Christ! It's true …_

The past came back to slap him in the face. He felt small and dishonorable all over again at the many indiscretions during his military life. This was the worst of all, and he could not come clean to Gregg or anyone else, about the truth. It would damage many people in many ways. Worse, Gregg must spend the remainder of his life with an obvious physical disability.

Gil shuddered at the irony.

'Intrinity' had flown wartime missions that endangered their lives every day. They

had each escaped unscathed. But a brilliant young boy who had grown up to become

a renowned doctor, for God's sake, had become a cripple for the rest of his life while _working at a hospital!_

Stratton's mind took a turn backward once more, and as the Miata wheeled toward home and hearth, he rolled back the years in his head.

oooooooo

He was born in 1934 while FDR was in the White House.

One of his most profound childhood memories involved his parents, his older sister and himself gathered around the hulking Zenith floor-model radio the morning of December 8, 1941: the day after Pearl Harbor.

"A date that will live in infamy …" Franklin Roosevelt said.

On that day, Gilbert Matthew Stratton, age seven, decided he wanted to be a soldier. Before that he'd wanted to be a preacher. He was determined to find a way to make both of those things fit.

He grew up to be 6' 1" in sock feet, a height deemed impressive by others, though he'd never thought of it as a distinction one way or another. He came to know that when he was speaking to people eye-to-eye, they were usually the ones looking up and he was the one looking down. When he thought about it further, he realized he really should become a minister of the gospel ... and then a U. S. Marine.

In the sixties there was a movie called "Dr. No" which starred a dark-eyed Scotsman named Sean Connery. Gil Stratton learned that soon after the movie debuted, girls of his acquaintance began to refer to him as a "… blue-eyed Sean Connery."

He was indeed a child of the fifties, as was Connery, but as far as he was concerned, that was the only thing they had in common. In this enlightened era, however, the fifties were frequently referred to as "the end of innocence": Doo Wop music, drive-in movies, football practice after school and church on Sunday. It was the fifties that shaped his life though, thanks to his Victorian parents who continuously preached that your word is your bond …

The year after he enrolled in Christian Seminary, he got a girl pregnant. She went to Canada to give birth and give the baby up for adoption, and he realized he would probably become a Marine a lot sooner than a preacher. He managed to stay in seminary into his junior year. But he could not stay away from the women. Before he got someone else "in the family way," he left school and enlisted before the Elders threw

him out.

In spite of his many sexual misdeeds, Gil took some part of his shredded honor along to Parris Island. He sowed plenty of wild oats between training sessions because there were scores of women from all walks of life begging for his attention. He did not discriminate. He could not ... would not ... control himself.

Some of the women Marines were there only to find a husband, get pregnant and get out. The civilian females weren't quite as easy. Most of them were long established locals, and wary of slick come-ons and worn out clichés from horny soldiers begging for a little ol' roll in the hay.

Gil made it a top priority to 'date' as many of the broads as he could in the shortest amount of time.

And then he met Mildred.

But that was another story. Gil smiled to himself when he thought back on it, even though it hadn't been so funny at the time.

oooooooo

The day after his squadron's graduation from flight school, the three brand new second lieutenants embarked on a wild weekend of celebration. Gil was five years older than the other two, but in those days it didn't matter. 'Intrinity' had met way back in basic training and formed an instant friendship. They climbed eagerly aboard Lt. John "Blackjack" House's sorry old Mercury station wagon and headed out for Louisville, Kentucky.

It was March of 1957 and it was their last month of freedom and hell-raising before

Cold War intrigue and other cat-and-mouse assignments tugged fiercely at their macho pride. Training missions and life on the flight line would soon take over their existence.

They tossed a coin and poked at a random page in the local phone book. The place was called "The Owl Inn" and it was attached to a "motel": a newish kind of motor hotel where you could park your car right outside your room. Locals had dubbed the place "The Dirty Bird".

Cash was thumbed from wallets and laid down on the counter for a double occupancy with an extra cot. Blackjack parked the Mercury; they all dropped their duffle bags in

the room and headed enthusiastically to the bar.

Three hours of boisterous "Semper Fi" cut the young marines down to size. Spicy fried chicken with lots of Louisiana hot sauce, raucous flirting with every female in sight, a loud band and too much Kentucky bourbon found them exhausted, drunkenly happy and ready to crash.

Two of them had wives. Blackjack was already married to Blythe, his high school sweetheart. Big Walt Bishop had acquired a wife the day of graduation by getting a marriage license and finding a justice of the peace to perform a quick ceremony for him and sweet Connie, his pregnant girl-friend. Both men staggered together out of the bar to check in with their spouses from the pay phone in the lobby.

Gil held down the fort by pawing shamelessly at the saucy girl who'd waited their table. Gil had teased with her all evening, and she kept him interested by bouncing back with wisecracks and come-hither looks. It was apparent that she had eyes for the sexy Sean Connery look-alike.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Mildred," she replied. "What's yours, Gyrene?"

"Gil." He told her. "Gilbert Stratton. You live around here? What time do you get off?"

When the party finally broke up, two drunken Marine Second Lieutenants retired to their rented motel room to sleep it off.

Lt. Stratton, however, left with Mildred in her handsome Edsel convertible.

They were married a week later, just before Stratton and his buddies and their wives left for duty in Okinawa. Blackjack and Walt both accused him of having taken leave of his senses.

Military housing on and around the small base was dirty and cramped. Officers were authorized to bring wives and families along, and the three young women were immediately astounded by the inadequacy and squalor of everything around them.

Stratton soon began to have regrets for his brash actions. Blackjack and Wally might have been right. He found that he was not good at marriage; not good at being tied to

only one woman, and certainly not inclined to be faithful. He found himself apologizing to God for his actions, but did not try to change. The longer he and Mildred shared the same cramped quarters, the more he searched for other liaisons.

Millie was demanding and spoiled. She had made good money as a bar girl, and she'd spent it wildly on fancy clothing and items of luxury, wanting to be seen and admired by every eligible man possible. The island culture was distasteful and cloying. She had no desire to be the mother of any squalling, snot-nosed brats, and she despised cooking and keeping house. The prospect of making three meals a day on a stove no bigger than a postage stamp, made her nauseous.

Most of all, Millie did not want to scrub and mop a drab, bug-infested shack the size of a packing crate. She wanted plenty of excitement and adventure, and Gil was not there often enough to provide it for her.

Added to that, Blythe House and Connie Bishop became friends very quickly, exclaiming

and laughing about not enough space in the bathroom for more than one person at a time, and tiny refrigerators that looked more like bread boxes.

Connie joked that she might have to bed her babies in dresser drawers; there was no room anywhere else. They quickly adapted to the new reality as though they had been born to inconvenience. Soon they both settled in as military wives, and Connie gave birth to twins.

Mildred Stratton remained guarded and aloof, not sharing in the laughter and the irony, and making no attempt to meet other wives and families stationed there. In a very short time she was miserable, isolated and short tempered and finding fault with everything and everybody, including her new husband.

Two months later the marriage was over. Gil threw up his hands in defeat and sent

Millie home to the states to initiate a divorce. He was hardly upset about the failure.

He soon began to brag that he was destined to become a gigolo. He'd failed at being

a minister and a husband ... he might as well do something he _was_ good at! Within a week of their separation, he was back to harassing women on base and off, and Millie was forgotten as though she'd never existed.

Gil moved to the BOQ and expanded his conquests to not only the single women, but a few of the married ones as well. He kept apologizing to God, but there was no sincerity in it. Secretly he kept an eye peeled for the pretty and gentle Blythe House. He knew if Blackjack ever got wind of his thoughts, however, he would beat Gil Stratton to a bloody pulp. Blackjack guarded his wife as jealously as a pit bull. Nobody messed with Blythe.

Gil knew his behavior and his thoughts were scandalous. Where had all his inbred honor and manners gone? He didn't know, and it bothered him, but not enough to make him quit.

For a short time after having libidinous dreams about Blythe House, he curbed his lusty thoughts and pulled back on the off-duty carousing. Sometimes he spent time alone in his quarters, in meditation, asking God why he behaved as he did.

God, however, offered no answers. Gil knew there was something out there that he was looking for. He believed he would recognize it when he saw it.

And then he did.

oooooooo

Gilbert Stratton felt his eyes filling up. Still conscience stricken after all these years.

Oncoming traffic half blinded him with their headlights, and he found that evening darkness had fully closed in. He was only three blocks from home, but he couldn't walk into his kitchen looking like he had lost his last friend. Well, he had, but that was not the reason for the tears. Furthermore, Marines don't cry! Not even ex-marines who were committed Unitarian ministers.

He pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store and doused his lights.

He put the top up and sat in his car for almost half an hour with the motor running and the heater turned on. It was a lot colder outside. The little store's lights were bright at night and their gas pumps were doing a brisk business. He said a short prayer, mostly in tribute to Blythe House for her years of quiet discretion.

While he had been reliving a shameful period of his life and pitying himself for being a fool, Stratton knew he could not turn back the clock and make everything _not happen. _Useless regrets were nonproductive and at worst, caused curious people to ask too many uncomfortable questions. He turned the lights back on and listened to the Miata's tight little engine humming with life. He backed out of the parking space carefully and headed for the exit.

Downtown streets were beginning to clear. It was getting late. Traffic lights were blinking red, amber and green to increasingly empty thoroughfares. The family would

be waiting.

Gil pulled out onto the street cautiously, turned right and headed home …

oooooooooooo

164


	26. Chapter 26

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 26

"A Parade of Rainbow Warriors"

Parris Island, S. C.

Sometime in 1957:

John House knew from the time he was a teen-ager carousing the streets of Philadelphia, that he would one day become a pilot in the Marine Corps. It was carved in stone and etched in bronze and written in toothpaste on the ceiling of the bathroom. It was the only reason he'd stayed in high school long enough to get that diploma and get the hell out.

To John, school was the most boring thing a kid could possibly get saddled with. Most answers came easy for him, but most of the study materials he was expected to commit to memory were a waste of time and brain power. He couldn't have cared less about history or geography or literature or languages or spelling or memorizing times tables. He had no interest in playing in the band, singing in the chorus or trying out for the class play. Any kind of math was nothing more than flights of logic, and he sailed through it easily.

John also hated sports that involved throwing, hitting, kicking, running around with,

or anything else to do with some kind of freaking ball. Instead, he haunted the town library, scouring through meteorological and oceanographic charts and weather maps. He poured over electrical schematics and dynamics of aircraft of all configurations.

He studied stacks of mechanical drawings of every known experimental jet engine design. His was an eclectic, discriminating intelligence.

The day after he was handed his high school diploma he presented himself at the Marine recruiter's office and demanded to sign up. "You can keep your NCO stripes," he told the sergeant on duty. "After Basic, I'm going to OCS!"

"Oh yeah? Well, I wish you luck, kid. Here … take these." The sergeant looked at him skeptically and arched an eyebrow. The kid was short and stocky and heavy featured;

not exactly the ideal 'look' of officer material. He gave John a stack of papers to fill out and preliminary tests to take, and then sat slack-jawed when John handed everything back within the hour. The tech read over the papers carefully and was duly impressed. The kid stared back at him in smug, arched-eyebrow triumph.

"Well, Junior, welcome to the United States Marine Corps. You'll probably report for swearing in about two weeks from next Friday. Semper Fi!"

USMC sent him for his pre-enlistment physical a week later. He submitted to weight, height and dental exams. He watched with bored indifference while doctors secreted his bodily fluids into tiny vials. The fact that they were then whisked off to be analyzed by strange, white-coated people using strange machines, was no concern of his. The results would be neatly typed into his permanent 201-file record and forwarded to his base assignment later. He knew he was healthy as a horse. That was all that mattered.

At home, his parents and older sister listened passively when he announced that he had just become an official member of the United States Marines Corps. Military service for young men was still mandatory in the '50's unless your I. Q. was below seventy, or you were color blind or had flat feet or were crippled for life. None of his family opposed him in the career he had chosen for himself by the time he was ten years old. He'd been yammering about it nonstop for his entire young life.

"The few, the proud, the Marines" had not become a TV commercial yet. "A Few Good Men" would not be a movie for another thirty odd years.

A week later, John hugged his mother and sister and set off to meet his father, head mechanic at a big Chrysler-Plymouth dealership in Philly. Dad wished him well, shook his hand grownup-to-grownup, because men did not hug in the '50s. He then drove his son proudly to the Greyhound bus depot where they said their awkward goodbyes.

John rode a Silverside Greyhound all the way to Beaufort, South Carolina. From there

he boarded an ugly olive drab Chevy shuttle bus with grinding gears. The rattletrap took him and thirty other young men, and one young woman, the rest of the way to Parris Island.

They all disembarked, finally, at a parade ground paved with asphalt; the entire bunch of them looking like a gaggle of rainbow-clad Easter chicks. They hauled their luggage out of the bus and into the glaring noonday sun.

A female Marine corporeal was present to accompany the lone woman recruit across

the base perimeter to the women's compound. Without exception, all eyes followed the undulating bottoms until they disappeared beyond a dip in the road. "BAMS", they were called. "Broad-Assed Marines". But the nickname was not authorized, and was usually whispered behind cupped hands, and accompanied by giggles and snickers.

When the women were out of sight and the men returned their attention to the fore, an immaculately clad giant suddenly loomed before them, standing at cast-iron attention in

a posture stiffer than a cigar store Indian.

They dropped their heavy suitcases, squinted upward, and raggedly attempted to imitate his pose. His voice was an Antediluvian thunderclap.

"**Ten-HUUUHT!" **

The instructor, or whatever-the-hell he was, brought his heels together with a crack that resounded like a rifle shot, and yet he'd hardly appeared to move. Shoulders braced back, arms stiff at his sides, thumbs forward and pointed down. His feet were set at an exact 45-degree angle.

_Freakin' stone statue!_

"My name _**is**_ … _Staff. Sergeant. Cletis. A. Hammond!_ You will remember it for the rest of your freaking lives!"

They stared; some intimidated, some sneering. He was _way_ tall. His head was shaved

to a walnut sheen beneath a fatigue cap that looked as though it had been soaked in liquid starch and stretched over a lard can.

It had.

He had arms like Popeye. His eyes were the color of Hershey syrup, and bored into each young man in turn with an iron glare that seemed to peel back their skin all the way to the bone.

His skin color was nearly as dark as his eyes. He was dressed in olive-drab fatigues, the pant legs of which had been ironed into creases as sharp as the blade of a Bowie knife. He carried five stripes on each sleeve; three chevrons and two rockers and crossed rifles in the middle of the configuration.

The hems of his pants were tucked neatly into the tops of gleaming leather combat boots. They would have been able to see their nervous, sweaty young faces mirrored perfectly in the gleaming surfaces, had he allowed them to look. There was a polished sidearm of undetermined caliber resting half obscured in a shining leather holster near his right hip.

They might have laughed out loud, had they known the gun was carved from scrap wood.

They shifted uneasily from foot to foot in front of him. For a few moments the silence was deafening.

"You **will** visit the mess hall at 1300 hours. But first you **will** visit Stores where you **will** be provided bedding, field attire, fatigue uniforms, Class A uniforms, and equipment.

"Fall in! Assume positions in rows of four. Tallest men in the rear! Foah-waaard … HOOUH!"

Clumsily they scrambled to do his bidding. He might have shot them where they stood if they hadn't. They grabbed their suitcases and humped along behind him like a giant, fat, multi-colored millipede. Sergeant Hammond counted cadence.

Loudly.

"Hutt-two-three-four … leeuft-raht-leeuft. Hutt-two-hutt-four … Hutt hutt hutt hutt … Column leayfff …. HOOUH!"

Confused rainbow recruits sprouted off in all directions: the millipede was flying apart. Nobody knew what the hell to do next, or how to execute the command. Sergeant Hammond stood far behind them, watching in disgust, fists on hips. John House stood

at the periphery, snickering, hip-sprung and bored.

"You act like little old ladies at a lingerie sale!" Hammond screamed. He had already singled out the stocky dark-haired kid to keep a close eye on ... "Laughing Boy over there … do you find something funny about this formation?"

Recruit House snapped to sloppy attention and attempted a sloppy salute. "N-Nosir, Sergeant Hammond."

"Do not salute me, recruit, and do not call me 'sir'. I am not an officer. Is that henceforth understood?"

"Y-Yesssir … er … Yes Sergeant!"

"Very well. Resume formation!"

The recruits reassembled quietly; reformed their ranks.

"Dig your heels in, people! You look like a herd of house cats! Hutt-hutt-hutt-hutt …."

Another tall, muscular black guy to the right of John House muttered under his breath:

"Wanna bet that ol' _Sar_-**junt** Clee-**tus** Ham-**mund** plays 'Chop-**sticks**' on his _'Ham_-_**mund**__-Org-__**gun**__'_ every night in be-**yud** …?"

John repressed a snort of laughter so completely that he expelled a line of snot, which exploded from his nose onto his upper lip …

"**I want absolute quiet in ranks, girls!"** Hammond bellowed. His eye was on House.

John wiped his nose on his sleeve and plodded on, holding his breath as they marched toward the stronghold of the Quartermaster.

oooooooo

John "Blackjack" House got his nickname because of his sarcastic "General Pershing" demeanor. He was a gruff know-it-all and master of the snide one-liner. He chided his barracks mates for being pantywaists, and when they cursed and offered him the ancient Cherokee Salute, John went out of his way to smudge their spit-shined brogans. He had read up on military protocol and knew exactly how far he could go before the shit hit the fan.

One day he went too far.

The big black guy who'd made the wisecrack about "Hammond's Organ" had had all of House's smart-ass tactics he could take. One evening in the barracks he drew back a powerful right fist and plastered John in the snoot, knocking him on his ass in a corner.

"Cut that shit OUT, 'OutHouse!'"

John did indeed cut it out after a bloody nose and a black eye of heroic proportions grew huge and purple and dominated the left upper quadrant of his face. From that day on, he and Walter "Wally" Bishop were the best of friends. Also from that day forward, John House was also known as "Blackjack". (Or "Outhouse" if Wally was pissed off at him.)

Sgt. Hammond pretended he didn't notice anything unusual about the smartass recruit who began to pull his fatigue cap further down over his eyes.

"Blackjack" was knowledgeable. His extensive reading about all things military put him a half-step ahead of everyone else in the barracks. All except one.

Another recruit, a bigger, tougher older guy who bunked in the cot next to Bishop, began to contradict everything House said. His name was Stratton, and he towered over the shorter, stockier man. His height, they figured, had to be up there with Hammond, smack against the ceiling. The jerk was dark-haired and blue-eyed and handsome, and had a devil-may-care attitude that masked a keen intelligence. If Blackjack said "white", Stratton said 'black", but something between them grew into unacknowledged, grudging respect.

Other recruits, forced into open-bay barracks life, made instant friendships also. But the trio of House, Bishop and Stratton was destined to become legendary. They were soon nicknamed: "Intrinity", which Stratton pooh-poohed ... because Gil Stratton pooh-poohed everything!

The three men criticized each other and everyone else. Soon "D" Barracks gained a reputation for being the sharpest in the compound because of their constant competition amongst each other to be Number One.

The second day on post, the recruits awoke to Reveille played on a pitiful old cornet by an over-the-hill Master Sergeant at 4:30 a.m. They scrambled drunkenly to make up their bunks and shit-shower-and-shave before they got gigged. They then hurried to stand outside their barracks at parade rest ahead of the 5:00 a.m. deadline … or until Staff Sergeant "Ham-_mond_" deemed it appropriate to show up.

Steaming morning sun often loomed over the horizon before the sergeant finally appeared to march them to the mess hall for breakfast. They groused to themselves about having to stand outside half asleep for a frickin' hour … but what-the-hell good did it do? They learned that in military lingo, it was called: "Hurry-up-and-wait."

After breakfast they felt better. Hammond put them to the march again. They reported for physicals at the post hospital's infirmary, almost a half-mile away. Inside, they were ordered to strip down to their 'altogethers' and line up in long queues, bare feet on cold tile floors, buttocks paved with gooseflesh from the sterile air conditioned atmosphere of the medical building. Their multihued skin tones blended and caught the morning sunlight that streamed through every window, making them resemble a large litter of Chinese Crested puppies ... but it didn't warm them up.

Other recruits walked past the windows and leered in. Most of them howled with laughter as they hurried on.

There were lots of white-coated doctors on duty who couldn't care less about their virgin sensibilities. There were also a plethora of pretty young nurses staring and comparing; looking interested and amused, and now and then even impressed.

Sgt. Hammond stood and watched from a distance, gnawing on a raw carrot as the new recruits tried to cover up their nakedness and gooseflesh with nothing but the breadth of their hands. He made no secret of his disdain. Just kept on chomping. And grinning.

The doctors all knew him. Shouts of "Hey Gunny ..." and "Hi Sarge ..." echoed through the huge room when he walked in. Hammond grinned and saluted smartly and waved ... and continued to munch on the carrot.

Some of the new recruits found themselves alarmingly at semi-attention; some wavered below half-mast. Others tried to conceal limp little members like birthday balloons that had lost their "puff".

Added to this aggravation, they were told they couldn't smoke within the area, even to

busy their hands while standing around like naked convicts awaiting a cavity search. Some of them bitched and groused, to no avail. Marine medics were not much for any kind of sympathy. They were just doing what doctors did. And you _did not _smoke inside a medical facility.

And_ nobody _smoked. Also, they had no pockets to keep their smokes_ in_.

Sgt. Hammond reminded them of regulations with a fog horn bellow: "You're supposed to be fucking **adults**, people! If you can't do without a goddamn cigarette for one hour of one day, then you're in the wrong service. Maybe some of you babies need to trit-trot back home to mommy until you can give up the titty bottle. Do I make myself **clear**?"

"Yes Sergeant."

"I can't hear you!"

"**Yes**. Sergeant!"

"What was that?"

"**YES! Sergeant!"**

"That's better. Carry on."

oooooooo

Everybody received an official looking letter at mail call a week later. These were the official medical reports from their 201 files. Each man got a copy from his hometown physician and another from the U. S. Marine Corps. In Blackjack House's, however,

was a revelation that gave him the shock of his life.

Blackjack would never be a daddy.

The wiggly little tad-poley things in his pecker did their duty as needed, of course. They swam upstream like salmon to the spawning ground. But when it became necessary for them to discharge their tiny lethal load, it turned out the little bastards were clicking on empty; shooting blanks. The disclosure rattled House, but did not distress him. He

even snickered to himself as he hid the letter beneath a row of socks in his foot locker.

He never told a soul that he could hereafter screw any freakin' woman he wanted … from the Halls of Montezuma to the Shores of Tripoli … and didn't have to be afraid of getting anybody pregnant. The week after that, John took a match and burned the damned letters to ashes in a lavatory sink, then flushed the charred residue. The only surviving copy was in his official 201 File in a government vault and forever beyond prying eyes. His secret was safe for all time.

The United States Marine Corps, as a whole, didn't give a rat's ass whether their new inductees procreated or not, as long as they could pull a trigger, shoot an M-16 rifle and march their asses off in formation. The procreation question was not exactly the Corps' first priority. No one would get gigged because he couldn't make a baby …

The only things the military doctors were responsible for was taking temps and pulses and jamming a rubber-gloved finger up anuses to tickle prostates. They were required only to observe calmly as each recruit sucked his breath, grunted like a water buffalo,

and hiked his heels three inches off the floor.

The docs also checked for gonorrhea and syphilis and any other lethal bugs that might jump off someone and land on the next in line. Medics were required to make certain the men's hearts were beating like kettle drums … which they were … and that they did not have any germs that could possibly decimate the entire Corps. They didn't.

Those items having been taken care of, Blackjack and the others were given a series of injections in each arm and a couple more in the butt.

(Grunts who had already had that experience, told new recruits that medics stood across the room and flung hypodermic needles like darts. Some actually believed it.)

Later, when the experience ended, they all bragged they'd been marked with a bona fide U.S.D.A. Seal of Approval: "USMC Prime".

Gung Freakin' Ho Ho Ho!

And so it went.

oooooooo

Quartermasters issued shirts and trousers, as required by regulations, a size too big and boots a size too small. Then they pointed their inductees to the nearest Barracks: Barracks "D".

Wrinkled camos, wrinkled fatigues, ugly white skivvies whose crotches hung to their knees, and dress uniforms with seams that tracked around to their outside ankle bones were affectionately labeled 'Uniform of the Day'. Everyone received fancy white hats with black brims. Those were called: "covers". They were also issued a flat little number that opened outward from a rectangular flatness. Dubbed: "cunt caps". (Even Blackjack's savvy face turned scarlet at that one.)

They were required to lug everything back to their barracks like cases of ammunition; to their new home, with arms and butt cheeks so sore and scabbed that they could scarcely navigate. Their bunks were hard as rocks and had to be made up so tightly that a quarter would bounce off the sheets a foot in the air.

They were given foot lockers in which to keep their skivvies. Soon, Origami-sculptured underwear lined up inside like cross-ties on a railroad. And the trunks along each side of the bay looked like mirror images of one another, so carefully and precisely were they aligned. Regulations.

Each man was issued a can of shoe polish with instructions that when they finished shining their brogans, they'd better be able to see their faces reflected in the leather. This sometimes took hours, and if they didn't get it right, they would be 'gigged' and sent to the parade quadrangle where they practiced by spit-shining rocks. At night. Under the arc lights. Kept company by gnats and mosquitoes by the billions …

oooooooo

Nine weeks of pure torture!

They marched …day after day … morning, noon and night. Close order drills: "Left oblique, right oblique. Column left, column right. To the rear … harch! Eyes right. Parade rest. Atten-hut!"

Blisters the size of half-dollars formed on their heels. Smothered with Unguentine. Their socks stuck to the soles of their feet.

"Yessergeant … nosergeant. Nosergeant …yessergeant … no excuse sergeant. Yessergeant. Yes!

"Yes **what?"**

"**Yes SERGEANT!"**

"**Carry on"**

"Take five. Fall out. Smoke 'em if you got 'em … and field strip the damn cigarettes!"

And they marched. They marched with hundreds of other squads of new recruits. Rise

at 4:30 a.m. to the old Sarge's sad reville long before the sun came up. Shit, shower and shave. Make your bunks, stow your gear, police your area. Scramble into formation and hit parade rest.

_Hurry up and wait …_

Fifteen minutes for breakfast. Too late? Tough shit! Lunch'll be five hours from now.

"Move yer asses, hiney heads!"

"_Lay-uh, raaht, lay-uh … coll'mn leyahft … haaarch!" _More close order drills, day after friggin' day.

"We're 'making the man'."

They hated the sight, the sound and the smell of _Staff Sar-gent Cleet-us A. Ham-MUND. _They hated his ass with a purple pulsating passion.

Hammond would grin and say: "Thank you, gentlemen. I try my very best. Someday you may progress beyond FUBAR. If you live that long. Hoo-Rah!"

oooooooo

After a time they found they were beginning to get it right. Their ranks were precise and tight. Legs pumped and hearts beat in rhythm like the precision of a fine jet engine.

Uniforms were fresh, seams pressed to razor-edge, shoes shining like a smacked baby's ass.

Smooooth.

Hammond, for all his cussing and haranguing and shouting, had turned them into a force to be reckoned with. They knew it; knew what it had taken to get it that way, and were way beyond proud. They marched eagerly to the parade grounds to strut their stuff in front of The Base Commander and his staff: in front of their wives and sweethearts and children, and parents and siblings.

Their pride in their accomplishments knew no bounds. They were United States Marines. Their snappy (regulation) uniforms said so.

_Gung-Freakin'-Ho! Hoo-Rah!_

When they finally graduated and received their first stripe, every man under Cletis Hammond's command said to him: "Thanks, Gunny …" and saluted smartly.

It wasn't regulation; it wasn't duty. It was respect.

He had taught them well. (It was his job; he didn't say.)

And they remembered him for the rest of their lives.

oooooooo

Some of them made it to flight school:

House. Bishop. Stratton. A handful of others.

"A Few Good Men."

_Semper-Fuckin'-Five-by-five! _

oooooooooooo

174


	27. Chapter 27

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 27

"Damp Dreams"

The Wee Hours,

Tuesday, January 20:

It was either freaking late or freaking early.

He hadn't slept, just tossed and turned. Too sore, actually, to toss, but he'd done plenty of turning. The bed clothes were tangled and his feet stuck out. His toes were cold, even in the warmth of the room.

His brain was crammed with jumbled thoughts, like someone had dumped a sack of confetti inside his cranium, every snippet encoded with a list of half-resolved issues.

He was seriously lost in a ticker-tape parade of unanswered questions that rained down around him: muddled, conflicted and scary.

His brain balked at the "scary" part.

Wind blew in gusts against the window pane and muted sounds magnified in his imagination. Nothing could shut out the eerie rattling and scratching of wind-blown

tree limbs in the moonlit shadows. Dry leaves and twigs butted into the casement; clicking on glass and swirling away again like headlights pulling against a snowstorm.

Eyes narrowed to slits, he could see tiny whirlwinds silhouetted in the glare of the street light down the block. He knew it wasn't that cold out there. Just windy. This was Kentucky, for God's sake. But it was still winter. Sunday morning when he'd sat on the porch slouching through his hour of pique, he'd felt the cold pierce him through and through. He felt the same kind of cold now.

Gregory House struggled again to free himself from the blankets in a manner that would not exacerbate the lingering discomfort of his body. He rolled over to his back and grabbed the sheet and top blanket tightly. Raising his behind off the mattress, he tugged the covers free from the foot of the bed and free from the strangle-hold they had on his legs.

He turned in the opposite direction and shoved his extra pillow beneath the covers to cushion the leg. Better. He bent both knees until he was in a near-fetal position. His toes warmed gradually and he sighed with relief. But the cold wasn't just in his toes; it was deep in his bones.

Across the room, the bulge on the other bed emitted a series of snores and gurgles that would have put a sump pump to shame. Wilson was sound asleep and oblivious three times over.

House grimaced in annoyance and dug his head deeper into the remaining pillow,

which did nothing to diminish the throaty sound effects.

_For God's sake, Wilson! _He thought nastily.

Wilson, however, wasn't the reason for his inability to sleep.

oooooooo

There were demons from yesterday still tumbling in House's head; ghosts from his childhood. Old memories, long past, were reawakening and rattling their chains in his subconscious, stalking his dreams.

Dancing marionettes wove themselves between the shadows of the room, swimming in the air and careening off the walls. It was like watching that Hallowe'en parade from the vantage point of his dad's shoulders when he was a little kid.

His childhood hadn't been _all_ bad, although when it reverted to form, it reverted quickly.

oooooooo

_Sometimes John could be almost human; pretend for a short time that he was actually a husband and father. Blythe was always there, deep in the background, the proper military wife: silent sentinel, grateful that her husband had consented to accompany his family on an outing._ _But still, an insinuation of mockery always lurked beneath the surface; a monkey wrench waiting to be tossed into the machinery. _

_All the ghoulies and ghosties in the arcane Hallowe'en parade jumped up and down and danced to the music of the calliope and the high school bands. They whirled and screeched and threw their goodies and waved their garish banners; grinning, mugging and giggling in macabre voices. _

_A foreshadowing ..._

_A bizarre beastie in red-striped coveralls and a huge paiper-mache head broke away from the other marchers and rounded on the laughing, shrieking children lining the sidewalk. The creature was tossing hard candy and bubble gum into the crowd. The bulbous head was huge and frightening to Gregg. A tall pageboy curl topped its frame, flanked by paiper-mache eyes, paiper-mache cheeks and a paiper-mache grin. _

_On his father's shoulders, Gregory House, age five, came face-to-face with the scariest thing he had ever seen. He reared back, panicking, and attempted to pull away. John lost his grip and almost dropped Gregg to the pavement on his head._

_Instead of consoling the child's fears, he yelled out at the tops of his lungs: "What are you doing, dummy? Trying to break your damn neck?" Behind them, Blythe tensed and reached out._

_A man's deep voice echoed from inside the head. "That's no way to treat a frightened child, Captain! I'm sorry son ..."_

"_I'll thank you to get the hell back where you belong and mind your own freaking business, numb-nuts!" John retorted._

_People all around them backed away, frowning and grumbling at the heartless Marine Captain who would use such language and scream at his terrorized child in this manner._

_Gregg House recalled a tangential image of his mother hurrying forward to pull him from John's grasp. She picked him up and held his small sobbing body to her chest._

_John then placed his hand in a viselike grip on his wife's shoulder until she cringed from him. He steered her away from the parade crowd and back to their car in complete and stony silence. The parade clamored past them, oblivious. The grumblers returned to their amusements, glad to be rid of the family with the loudmouth husband._

_Gregg had been too small to remember the heated words exchanged in the front seat on the way back to the base. But they were brutal. Blythe was in tears when they pulled up in front of their quarters._

_The next morning when he awoke, his father was gone again on another "mission", another unexplained absence of his frequently unmissed dad. _

_His mother was very quiet when she poured his Rice Krispies into a bowl. Even at his tender, uninformed age, she would not look him in the face. Gregg sensed that something was wrong with his family, but he did not know what. _

_Not yet._

oooooooo

A chill ran down House's spine at the clarity of the memory, and he shivered beneath the blankets. It was as though all his private demons knew exactly when and where the inevitable "other shoe" was going to drop, and they took advantage of his vulnerability. Gregg had never told anyone about the dreaded dreamlike memories over the years. Not even Wilson.

Especially not Wilson.

In adulthood he had sometimes confided in strangers ... but never friends.

_Suck it up, Marine!_

Other such incidents interrupted his childhood years on a semi-regular basis. So many, and often relentless. He hated them, but he bore them in silence. These days they visited him mostly in dreams and then stayed around to haunt him during daytime hours.

Gregg's surprising intellect seemed to have attained adulthood long before his small

body caught up with it. He often went to bed accompanied by fear. What would become

of his family? What would become of _him? _Who would look after him if his father or mother went away forever? Was he such a bad boy that his father could not wait to get away from him? Would Mom go away too? It was a very real fear for a child.

As the years passed, he discovered an increasing number of ways to disappear like that hole-in-the-air his father once stamped on him. He remained small and scarce while his parents' personal battles waged in other parts of the house. Even when secluded in his bedroom, the sounds of their arguments penetrated the walls, the stairs and the hallways.

_Suck it up, Marine!_

_Yeah ... I heard you the first time._

He had always had weird dreams; had always managed to put them behind him and move on. Now, in this house in Kentucky, with the Colonel so recently departed, the dreams were getting weirder. Stranger than that, they were interspersed with some of the things he had so recently tried to discuss with his mother.

_My Mother the Car … hah! My father the dog …_

He sighed raggedly and drew a cocked elbow across his eyes to shut out sensations of fantasy intermingled with reality. All his evil spirits were supposedly banished to the past, but even middle-aged adulthood and thought-out logical explanations could not chase them away. He pulled the blankets up further, but the feelings of being chilled to the bone persisted … physically and mentally.

oooooooo

When Gregg turned twelve it was a year of change. That was the year his life took an abrupt turn and shaped the man he would become … and cling to … for the remainder of his days.

House rolled over onto his left side and dragged the blankets with him, retreating deeply into the past and remembering the discovery that had once rattled him to his roots. It came back to haunt him more than any other experience of his young life …

oooooooo

They were stationed in the states in those days:

It was the first time he could recall that the family lived in off-base housing. John was a Major then, and rank did have its privileges. It was during the early '70s and they had recently moved into a bungalow just north of San Diego.

oooooooo

Blackjack and Wally Travis and Gil Stratton had been transferred to Mitscher Field, part of the Marine Corps Air Station at Miramar. John and his long-time team mates were on a short list to transition away from the Marine Corps' older F-4 Phantoms, checking out the soon-to-be delivered F-14 Tomcats. The birds were still under wraps. Not even the first photographs of them had yet reached beyond the Pentagon and the Oval Office. It had been hinted, however, that one member of Intrinity would be first to fly one.

From the time he was a little kid, Gregg knew that when his father got a transfer, Walt and Gil would be on the list too. The Bishops and the Houses and the Strattons had been next-door neighbors, or close to it, all over the world. His mom and Connie Bishop and Coe Stratton were buddies too … girl buddies … just as John and Walt and Gil were guy buddies. It was a given.

Gregg was mostly okay with the Bishop boys. Tom and Joe were twins; two years older. Tall, skinny kids with black curly hair and huge brown eyes. Their skin was the color of tobacco in the barn. They were full of the devil just like Gregg, and what one didn't think of, the others did. When they walked together, base wags with cocked eyebrows called them "Oreo Cookie". The moniker made them grin. The Bishops' little brothers, Billy and Eddie, were two and three years younger; quiet boys who had their own circle of friends and kept well out of reach of their older brothers.

Neela and Barry Stratton were younger also. Their father had been married before but

it didn't take. Major Stratton was a little behind in the daddy department. Gregg often heard his father joke that Stratton wouldn't have made it as a preacher ... he'd sowed enough wild oats to feed the state of Kansas for a year after Millie walked out. Gregg had never known Millie, of course, so he didn't know for sure what the hell that meant. Gilbert Stratton was certainly not preacher material, his buddies joked. It seemed that that didn't take either.

Gregg remembered vaguely when "Coe" came on the scene and became Gil's second wife. Right after Intrinity came back from Okinawa the first time.

"Cotillion Clarissa Campbell of the 'Philadelphia Campbells'". She was blond, blue-eyed, willowy and tough as nails.

Blackjack and Blythe, Walt and Connie never heard of the Philadelphia Campbells and had no idea if they were famous or notorious. Maybe they were people of the company that made canned soup.

Maybe they were part of the reason Andy Warhol became famous.

Turned out it was neither.

"My name is 'Coe," she had once declared. "The first guy that calls me 'Cotillion' or 'Clarissa' goes home with a black eye!" It was rumored that nobody ever ventured to find out if she would do it … there was never a question about whether or not she _could._

Neela Stratton, their first-born, was two years younger than Gregory House.

oooooooo

Gregg's hormones, the summer he was twelve, were waking up and taking notice that he was a boy and every other person that managed to draw his attention was a girl. Neela was the skinny blonde daughter of his dad's best friend. Even at ten, she showed promise of future beauty, and Gregg took notice. This phenomenon bothered him most when he was in bed at night.

His hand would move down "there", seemingly of its own volition. He would grope eagerly behind the thin fabric of his underwear. The sensations that screamed inside his body made him want to scale a brick wall or heft the bumper of a car or pick a fight with something large and menacing …

_His fingers would come back freaking _WET! _His underwear too ... and sometimes even his sheets._

_Blick!_

He'd learned about some of this stuff from a group of buddies behind the school during giggly sessions of clandestine little meetings they knew as: 'sandlot sex'. _This_ would happen and _that_ would happen, and it would be strange, and it would feel wonderful, and you had to watch out and not let it get 'out of hand' (ha ha ha) and not get caught (yikes!) … or you'd be in deep doo-doo … and the whole yucky business was called "puberty" … blah blah blah … holy shit, man …

Ever since he was nine he'd heard older boys bragging about their awakening sexual prowess during those furtive discussions out of sight of teachers and … (gasp) … girls. Gregg hadn't felt those stirrings yet, so he usually walked away in disdain.

Now, however, he found that most of that early boasting from his friends had contained bits of erotic fascination and funny little pearls of truth. His own awakening awareness astounded him. Things below his belt were coming alive like fish worms in a bucket.

His stomach sometimes felt like a phantom hand was in there palpating it, sending small, strange, sweet, ecstatic sensations all the way to his balls, which, in turn, felt like they had got a bad case of hiccups. _JEEZ! _Sometimes it made him hitch his breath and moan out loud.

It was … Oh God! … fantastic! No shit! It scared him enough that he almost hated to touch himself down there … but it also felt like a fistful of joyous nirvana had punched him in the gut when he did touch himself … and he couldn't resist. If his pecker fell off because he played with himself, as some grownups said it would, so be it.

Walking home from school with Neela Stratton sometimes took his breath away and brought on more of the writhing sensations. Neela had suddenly transformed from a pain in the ass into a ... (gasp) _girl!_

Gregg wanted to touch her … wanted to run his fingers through her blonde pixie-cut

hair … kiss her on the lips … reach beneath her skirt and find out if she had a wonderful wetness around her snatch sometimes like he had around his pecker sometimes …

One day after school he did reach. She jumped away from him with a horrified look on her face. Daunted, he pulled his hand back and glared at her.

"Gregory House, what on Earth is the matter with you?"

"N-nothing …"

Then she was laughing. "Foolish boy!" She taunted. "You want to get into my panties, don't you, Greggy? Mama warned me it would happen someday."

Neela was only ten. He was twelve and totally humiliated by the things she seemed to know ... and he didn't. He hung back for an awkward moment, and she stood watching him turn red.

"You can kiss me if you want," she teased quietly. "But I won't take my clothes off. Not for you or anybody. Mama says I'm not old enough."

Neela took his hand and pulled him behind a clump of bushes. He followed eagerly. She seemed so sure of herself that he wondered whether she had done this kind of thing before. He let her pull him close and kiss him on the mouth. He stuck his tongue inside and forced it behind her teeth. It was wet and smooshy and sticky. And then she did it back to him, and he was afraid for a moment he was going to gag. But he didn't.

Gregg reached around and did what he'd been wanting to do forever; he ran his clumsy fingers through her blond hair and kissed her exactly the way he'd seen it done in the movies.

Things down south came suddenly alive.

When her hair fluffed and skittered aside beneath his touch, his little arousal withered and vanished as though it had never been. A bolt of fear and dread skittered through his body as though he'd just been touched with a branding iron. Two days before, he had read something in a book he'd stolen from the library …

Caught in an instant of panic, he stepped back and let go. He felt like her skin and his hands had both turned fiery hot.

He thrust both fists deep into his pockets and turned quickly away.

"What's the matter Greggy? Did I scare you?" She was puzzled, but still teasing.

"No. Gotta go." He turned and ran as she stared after him, clueless.

oooooooo

After that he shied away from Neela Stratton in confused consternation. He spent hours analyzing his discovery; trying to determine a context in which his mind could safely deny what it was trying to tell him. He remembered whole paragraphs from the pages of the genealogy book he'd been reading …

He went home that day and dug immediately into his stack of medical books to research things he did not want to know, but clearly suspected.

He did not speak to Neela for weeks.

Nor did he talk about it to anyone else.

Not until years later when he and Wilson were on their way to the colonel's funeral.

oooooooo

Gregory House drifted back to sleep again, finally, tangled once more in his blankets. The wind died down and the night became peaceful. And daylight began to reach out past the moon.

oooooooo

James Wilson threw back his covers, yawned, stretched, and perched on the edge of the mattress with bare feet flat on the floor. He'd slept well and it was obvious from the muffled sounds that floated across the room that House had done the same. His friend was snoring softly and James did not have the heart to bend over him to try to loosen the sheets that bound his legs and lower torso. House would probably be achy and sore when he awoke, but peaceful sleep would make up for any ensuing aches and pains.

Wilson went to the bathroom and closed the door softly.

It was a little after 7:00 a.m.

000000000000

184


	28. Chapter 28

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 28

"The Old Lion"

January 20,

Early morning:

Sometimes Wilson feels like a voyeur.

He's always spying, always stealing covert glances; pretending to be oblivious of his friend hiding constant discomfort. Wilson has difficulty pulling off any kind of subterfuge, because House can read him like a book. House always acts the angry, misanthropic bastard when he perceives a hint of compassion turned in his direction. Occasionally, when House's mask slips and reveals the torment that gnaws at his

bones, he always knows that Wilson always knows.

External signs are easy to spot if you know where to look. They've always understood that.

The 'angry misanthropic bastard', however, is a friend; has been a friend forever in their collective memory. So how does the first friend avoid showing concern for the other? For Wilson, a twinge of ambivalence has always compromised his moments of: 'I didn't see a thing'. It has always halted him in his tracks with an annoying sense of obligation.

"_Our friendship is an ethical responsibility."_

Observing an angry, misanthropic bastard who experiences too much physical pain might cause second thoughts when the drugs come out ... but only for a moment. This is a man with a cruel disability whose emotions are laid bare beyond the capacity to control. He needs the pills to survive. Ergo: pills (for pain) and accompanying booze (for oblivion), are killing him by inches. Mounting evidence of this over the years, has caused even informed medical professionals to cringe.

When Wilson sometimes dares to mention this obvious fact, he always catches royal hell for it. Sometimes he doesn't understand why he catches royal hell from everyone he knows, but he mentions it anyway.

Such moments are often humbling. He knows he is an enabler. When House's face is ashen and his eyes red-rimmed with strain, Wilson brings him his Vicodin and pours him a stiff glass of whatever is handy.

Ergo: Enabler.

House's breathing comes in gasps; muscles rigid from hiding distress and retreating from reality. His hands gravitate to the scar, transmitting meager warmth to get the situation under control. He sometimes seems to exist inside a private forest fire that licks at a bed of dry leaves, searching for the roots.

House is an old lion, suffering from an old wound, growling and biting at the source of the fire; diverting stares from curious eyes. All his life he has been a menace to lesser creatures. He is surrounded by rabbits, hiding and watching and judging, but voiceless except far beyond his hearing. And then they squeal.

Wilson sometimes feels like one of the rabbits, hesitating for having laid witness to such a sad display, even when it plays out before his eyes. He will offer assistance in a non-patronizing manner if he can, which will put him in peril of being rebuffed, because the old lion exists in mortal fear of solicitousness. Wilson will reach out regardless. This ritual has gone down before and he has always been aware of the consequences.

Considerations and contradictions aside, exasperation resides within the heart of James Wilson.

Exasperation.

Not with House, the old lion, but with fate.

Wilson wishes, not for the first time in this long friendship, that just once cruel fate might act in a different manner for this old lion, still trying to hold off the fire.

_Just once!_

oooooooo

Standing in the bathroom doorway with a damp towel wrapped loosely around his hips, James Wilson stared across the room in dismay at Gregory House.

Tangled in bed linens, House struggled to straighten surgically impaired muscles to their best length. His hand gripped the damaged flesh, crushing the skin. House, the old lion, surrounded by fire, labored with old wounds while the forest burned and the rabbits' eyes stared and grew wide. Stretching his leg to its limits was one of the methods he would sometimes use in order to seek a short span of relief. Abuse the abused muscles until the strain outreaches the pain. It was useless and made no sense.

From his ragged breathing and fists clenched in the bed sheets, House was not getting the desired effect. His back arched above the mattress, struggling, forcing wakefulness.

Wilson sighed. Hesitant about what to do, if anything, he knotted the damp towel more securely around his waist and stepped across to the bed. He stood over it, looking down.

"House. Stop! Give me a number." It was the single, most practical method he could think of to get a few scraps of information without House grating at him to get the hell away and leave him alone.

"Sixteen … " came the muted, sarcastic response. "… and counting."

Wilson dropped to his knees on the floor and reached to untangle the tight ropes of bedding from House's legs.

"What are you doing?" House moaned.

"Trying to get you loose from the damn sheets," Wilson said. "Hold still so I can pull 'em off you …."

A period of silence punctuated by short intakes of breath accompanied Wilson's attempts to free House's feet and ankles from the tangle. Finally they slipped away and Wilson tossed the bundle aside. "Jesus! What were you doing … running a marathon?"

"Yeah, right … I wish!" House heaved himself around to flop on his back and point to the chair by the bedside table. "The morphine kit," he panted. "It's in the inside pocket of the overnighter …"

"No, House … God no!"

Wilson's refusal to take the easy solution brought the full force of House's anger.

"I'm in pain, damn you! It's the only thing that works." He tried to force himself to a sitting position, pushing with uncanny upper-body strength upon Wilson's restraining hands against his shoulders. "Get me the morphine or get the fuck out of my way!"

House's response came exactly as Wilson had predicted it would.

"No!" He snarled. "It's too soon after the last one. You're killing yourself!"

"Fuck it! I'd rather be dead than put up with this. It's inhuman …"

"Don't be such a baby!" Wilson hissed between his teeth, declining to raise his voice and take the chance of Blythe overhearing. "Lie back and let me try some deep-muscle stimulation …"

House turned feverish eyes to Wilson's emotion-flushed face for a moment. Finally, hesitating, he glared at his friend and snarled, lion-like: "You're no good at this!"

Wilson stood poised on both knees at the side of the bed. "I can try. Hold still so I can reach you!"

"Hurry up and get on with it then, or get out!"

The oncologist's hands were gentle at first, then his fingertips bit into the skin, pushing House's desperate grasp out of the way. Each hand formed an arc that, when Wilson's thumbs and fingers closed in, made a circle that nearly surrounded House's leg just above the knee. Slowly he tightened his grip. He had no difficulty completing the circle with his fingers.

"Ingrid showed me how to do this," Wilson grunted. "I don't have the experience or the grip that she does, so it may take a little longer …"

"It also might help if you spent more time _doing _… and less time _talking …_" House growled.

Wilson applied more pressure and moved closer to his left, palpating the tight surface

of House's thigh in ever-tightening increments. He alternated gripping and loosening

his long fingers in a rapid motion that resembled that of a manual blood-pressure cuff. Working to relax deeply corded tendons, he watched closely as House writhed beneath his touch, beyond conversation now, upper body straining to remain still beneath Wilson's grasp.

Wilson's own wrist ligaments were tiring quickly as he worked, and he had to pause often to rest and flex his fingers. He could feel sweat beading and itching on his forehead already. He wasn't used to this, and it wasn't long before he began to cramp and freeze up. His skin felt clammy. Deep muscle massage wasn't as easy as it looked when he'd seen Ingrid doing it with such professional ease.

Again and again he eased off and then returned to tighter palpations near, around and above the angry scar that disfigured House's thigh. Using the heels of both hands Wilson changed his attack to ease his aching wrists, kneading downward across the unyielding tissue. He could feel a deep burning pain traveling upward and into his shoulders. He was sweating copiously, becoming sore enough to want to quit this losing battle, admit defeat, and reach for the morphine. It felt more and more as though someone were repeatedly shooting staples into his biceps.

Wilson backed off a moment to let the burning sensations fade, and then renewed his attack. His fingers and thumb tips searched desperately for any sign of release from the damaged biceps femoris; some indication of progress before his aching arms went completely numb.

Finally he detected a faint jerk of response from the muscle group; House's adductors giving up the fight, backing off beneath his determined, mulish attack. He could discern the rock-hard consistency of spasming nerves and sinew beneath his hands beginning to unhinge.

The final release allowed his fingertips to make shallow white dimples in the skin as it relaxed into submission in tiny increments, relaxing back to normal consistency of skin and muscle and tissue.

The effort was finally working. Ingrid had taught him well. Wilson the novice felt as though he'd been at it for hours. How long had it really been? Maybe two or three minutes? He must stick with it a little longer, although the angry burn in his arms would soon paralyze them, making them buzz like particle accelerators, compressing the tendons and gluing his fingers to his palms. He could feel the drone that would close down tactile sensation. He was not sure if he had enough stamina to hold out before both forearms and hands became useless.

Then it was over.

A noticeable shift in House's rigid back indicated a slow release from the crippling muscular spasms. Wilson saw that his friend was able to lie flat on the mattress.

There was silence in the room. Both their bodies were spent. Wilson wilted backward, landing on his butt beside the bed. Above him, House lay gasping with relief.

The burn in Wilson's arms flared and then gradually abated as his system shot endorphins to combat the pain of release. He let himself slump, doubling up weakly beside the bed. His biceps twitched as they loosened, like an overheated car engine ticking down. The towel at his waist had slipped a few inches and a sensationless forearm lay slack across his lap, pinning it in place.

At that moment he was incapable of anything, including movement. He let his head fall onto the edge of the mattress, and leaned there catching his breath. His hair, plastered to his head, was saturated with sweat. Rivulets trickled down his forehead and fell in fat droplets from his nose and chin. He had no strength to wipe them away.

House remained silent and motionless also, except for deep, rough breathing that was leveling out to normal as they both struggled to recover.

"Wilson-n … I –I …" House managed a guttural whisper.

James nodded without making any effort to answer. The quiet manner in which his

name had just been spoken was probably all the 'thank you' he would ever receive.

He smiled a little and let his chin drop onto his chest.

Moments later Wilson felt the touch of hesitant fingers brush across his wet hair at the spot where his forehead made a wet patch on edge of the sheet.

Familiar mockery returned.

"Wilson … you stink.

"So do you."

"But you stink worse. Besides, it was your snoring that woke me up and made my leg go into spasm."

Wilson smiled weakly. "Bullshit!"

Even through diminishing pain, House placed the blame squarely on his friend's head.

No surprises there.

The old lion was still fighting the forest fire.

oooooooo

They made an appearance in the kitchen at 8:30 a.m.

Blythe had a pot of coffee ready to pour, and was removing a frying pan from the island cupboard.

Wilson walked into the kitchen a few steps ahead of House, not wanting to appear as though he were hovering.

House followed behind, a little wobbly. His hand gripped the cane like the jaws of a vise. "'Morning, Mom," he said with a disarming grin, and then shambled to the island where his bottle of Vicodin still sat beside the coffee pot.

"Good morning, Gregg," she replied with a sidelong glance to Wilson, who could do nothing except make a helpless face and shrug minutely with one corner of his mouth. "Good morning, James. Did you boys sleep well?"

House uncapped the bottle and allowed two of the white pills to drop into his palm. He tilted his head back and swallowed them dry. "Yup. Slept fine until Wilson woke me up banging around in the bathroom …" He lowered his eyes quickly, not wishing to see the look of incredulity she would cast in his direction.

Blythe angled her head at him and looked over the tops of her glasses. "Gregory House,"

she said at last, "you lie like a rug. Other people might be fooled by your Claymation face-making, but you grew up in my house, and I know all your tricks. Please stop treating me like one of your duller patients, because you look like death warmed over. Again."

He risked a glance upward, over-bright eyes darting between his mother and his friend, perhaps wishing for rescue from having to give comment. But Wilson's dark eyes grew darker, lips pursed, eyebrows drawn together. No help there.

House turned away from the island and moved determinedly to the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair and sat down. He would _not _clamp his hand around the scar, even if his leg fell off. He hooked his cane over the back of the chair and placed both hands on the table before him.

"Mom … I'm fine. Really. I had a muscle spasm this morning, but it's eased off now. You and I haven't seen much of each other the past ten years or so, and it's pretty much a different world for me now. I didn't want to come on this trip because I know how you worry. I'm a cripple, Mom. The pain comes and goes, and I have to deal with it." His gaze was downcast, purposely not looking into her face, afraid of seeing a teary reaction.

No matter how desperately he would have liked to do so, he could not tell her of the frightening dreams that had demolished his sleep and brought him to the point of struggling helplessly on his bed. Many of those dreams caused him to twist and turn

until he became tangled in sheets and blankets to the point of causing spasms.

Blythe sat down beside her son and placed her palm lightly upon his left forearm. "Gregg …"

He lifted his eyes to her in an instant of wild-animal panic. She squeezed his wrist briefly and then released it. Blythe House was not teary. She was determined. "I'm not the timid creature I was when you were a child, Gregg. I grew some backbone over the last few years when your father found out he couldn't rule me any longer. Things got a little better before he began to fail. I knew we'd have to wait you out until you decided to come home again, and I think I have James to thank for that ..." She smiled at Wilson across the room.

"I still wish you hadn't waited until your father was gone. The last few years he came to appreciate your position. He wouldn't have grilled you or teased you about it. He read as many articles as he could find about disabilities like yours. He tried very hard to understand. Some things did happen for the better between the two of us. It might be difficult for you to talk about many of those difficult times, but we have to resolve them ... soon."

Blythe lowered her tone of voice to a gentler volume, but continued before he could interrupt her. "I'm beginning to believe this place … here … these surroundings … are bringing back bad memories of your childhood. These aren't like the physical settings where we lived when you were a boy, but the atmosphere is similar. You remember the furniture, the rugs, the pictures, the piano. I think you're looking for your father's ghost. You're not sleeping well, are you? Is it because you're experiencing nightmares, and that's what sets off the pain and the spasms?"

He frowned, but didn't look away. His eyes shifted downward.

"_Looking for my father's ghost?" Jesus, I've already found that …_

"Mom … I don't think I can talk about any of this …"

"Oh yes you can. Gregory, you _have_ to."

"Is that what happened to you this morning?" Wilson asked quietly from across the room.

House glanced up, face dark with sudden anger.

"That's none of your business."

"If it's not my business, then whose? It's _our_ business, House. All three of us. Don't start getting defensive now. She may be onto something. She is, isn't she?"

"What happened this morning, James?" Blythe's brows were furrowed, eyes snappish.

There would be hell to pay if they didn't tell her.

"I had a spasm, Mom, a bad one," House finally interrupted. It was breakthrough pain because I couldn't move and I needed to scream. Wilson here, tied my leg in a knot with his bare hands … and the damn thing went away. Miracle worker!"

"Is that how you say 'thank you' to a friend?" Her tone was teasing, but there was smelted pig iron in her expression and bearing.

House snorted. "If he'd minded his own business, I wouldn't even have had to say _that._

I would have just got out my stash and been a very happy boy this morning. Instead, he stands over there with arms of lead, fingers that barely work, and he looks like he's going to fall down any minute."

House looked up, parrying his attention back and forth between them. "I could use a cup of coffee … or maybe something a lot stronger."

They backed off; he had diffused the situation with nonsense. "I think Wilson could probably use a Vicodin."

oooooooooooo

192


	29. Chapter 29

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #29

"The Silver Bird Seldom Thinks of His Nest"

Okinawa,

September, 1958:

He banked upward gracefully like a hawk rounding on prey; precise, hard right and over. G-forces pressed the pilot deep into his seat and the plane responded instantly, clamping the lid on, standing him almost on his head. Before he could catch his breath, he was on the yoke again, lifting her by force of will, somersaulting around, sweeping down in the opposite direction. Centrifugal forces eased quickly with the steep drop and he could feel his body floating and buoyant until the fighter leveled out. He kept his exact location in the air entirely by instinct. It was almost as though there were invisible arms holding the plane to the strict measure of space between Earth and sky ...

Maneuvers. Testing the new baby … the only one he would ever have.

The shave-tail in the rumble seat was probably pulling leather, puking into his oxygen mask. Blackjack couldn't care less.

Today he ruled the skies alone.

Suddenly, two more jets converged on the pristine F-14 from out of the west, dark images growing larger in the sun's rays as a pair of Skyhawks flanked his position.

Blackjack was expecting them.

Sung and Mallick met House and Jablonski, the JAFO, in mid-air. They had been doing dog-fights and precision patterns for days; practicing combat skills and evasive tactics. Now, finally victorious, they were 'thumbs-up' in their cockpits and would fly escort back to home base. They could see each others' vapor trails snaking around them like wraiths as they joined ranks. The planes' noses poked through the mists like index fingers playfully poking through smoke rings.

Below them, green-brown dots on blue Pacific waters revealed the long, narrow Ryukyu Archipelago; visible, then gone from their sights. Kadena Air Base, a rectangular brown and green cat-scratch on the patchy coral island of Okinawa, rolled in and out of view. East China Sea had figured prominently in the fighting during Word War II, but now in peacetime, it lay calm and serene upon crystal waters.

First Lieutenant John House was on TDY.

oooooooo

A week earlier Blackjack received sealed _Secret _orders which upped his security clearance from _Confidential. _ The orders were cut by the office of the base commander

at Mitchler Field … along with notification that he would be promoted to Captain when this mission was completed. He was well aware he'd been singled out for something important. He was the best of the best. He was aware of that also.

Operating on a need-to-know basis, he'd informed Blythe in brief and cryptic manner

that he would be gone for a week, maybe longer. There was no discussion. She was

not to ask questions or engage in speculative gossip with other wives. His obligation

to the Marine Corps came first. Everyone knew that.

Blythe was disappointed and hurt at his stern, no-nonsense pronouncement. She wasn't some buck private he could order around at will. They'd had plans for a weekend in San Francisco with Walt and Connie Bishop, which she now had to cancel. She could not, after all, spend a weekend in the company of another couple without her husband. When she mentioned it to John, he became angry and loud; told her to get a grip and handle it. That's the way it was. When the Marine Corps called, John House always answered.

The argument was short. Nonexistent, in fact. When she protested again, he clammed up and walked away from her. She wondered suddenly whether he might actually hit her if she'd said anything further.

A canvas shoulder bag with underwear, uniforms and fatigues was always hanging in a closet, packed and ready. John moved about the house, gathering toiletries and other necessities, then stormed out the door with a curt: "I'll see ya later …" trailing in his wake. There was no parting kiss, no embrace; just stubborn determination.

From the open front door, Blythe watched her husband get into his handsome new pickup truck, fire it up and drive away.

Orders in John's Class-A shirt pocket revealed that he was being deployed to far-away Okinawa where a brand new jet plane would have little chance of being observed by a member of American media. Or anyone else that mattered. He rode shotgun in a lumbering C-130 Globemaster ferrying ordinance and supplies. His sealed mission instructions were handed to him while still in the air. He was to check himself out thoroughly on the new McDonnell-Douglas F-14 Phantom II interceptor. Quite an honor. The orders had not singled out Captain Stratton or Lieutenant Bishop. They singled out **him!** He had been upped to _Secret _clearance, and the brag factor would be phenomenal. Especially if he shipped back home with a brand new promotion to _Captain._

Blackjack wanted to take the plane up solo first, but the wing commander insisted that since this was a two-man jet, he must have a backup riding shotgun. So there was a shave-tail lieutenant in 'second chair', manning RADAR, telemetry and backup firing systems …

… which were not even operational. Yet.

Two pilots flying observation were in a well-seasoned pair of single-seater F-4Ds, older models of the same aircraft, which had been around for years. Both men: JAFO. Eyes and ears only, surveiling at close range, taking tactical note of every move and maneuver Blackjack made with the new bird.

The unique plane, sleek and quick, was a study in grace. Lt. House handled her like he would an ornery woman recruit: roughly but firmly. No kid gloves for this beauty!

She might have to serve in combat one day, and she had to be tough enough to handle whatever was thrown at her. So far, so good.

The bird's shadowy fuselage carried no I. D. She had not been branded yet with

Marine, or any other service insignia. Therefore, binoculars staring up from dirtside would see only a profile of something dark with an unfamiliar configuration; different and gleaming, slicing through the sky.

There was no chit-chat between cockpits; only maneuver requests and compliance.

"Give us a wingover … fire on the water!"

Blackjack laid her over, first to port, then starboard, again and again. The turrets were empty, but the gun simulators responded quickly; elegantly. The tests were clean.

"Barrel roll … to the left and cut to a vertical zoom. Pull out just before she stalls. Keep your eyes peeled to RPMs, altimeter and air speed …"

Blackjack laid her over three more times, angled into graceful upward loops and poured on the juice. The Phantom leapt beneath him like a panicked wild creature. Powerful

G-forces pinned him to the back of his seat. There was an ominous gulp in the speakers from the rear seat of the plane that made Blackjack smile to himself.

"Holy Jumpin' Horseshit Mariah! She's like the wind!" He yelled into his headset.

Voices from the other planes rumbled with the laughter of camaraderie. The new Phantom had just been christened.

"_They call the wind Mariah … "_

When they all caught their breaths, they joined in the customary _"Semper Fi's"_.

Initial maneuvers successful; head for home …

oooooooo

The four officers walked from the tarmac to the hangar at high noon, their gear undone, buckles and straps clacking behind them.

Next would come the debriefing, which could take awhile.

They shucked their leather, their vented nylon and their sweaty poopysuits and prepared to head for the showers.

As they strode through the hangar, a team of Marine and Air Force mechanics and stress-factor techies in fresh fatigues were already mobilizing. These men had been busy gathering checklists and calibrating diagnostic instruments and precision testing devices. Four eager experts walked out into the glaring sunlight as the four incoming pilots passed by them at the entrance to the hangar.

Both teams eyed each other and exchanged grinning salutes.

The hands-on guys hurried out toward the gleaming bird that stood alone and proud on the tarmac with her engines still ticking down. She was a powerful-looking piece of 'hi-tech', (a new term, quickly gaining in popularity), and they were responsible for making sure her mechanical and electrical systems had weathered the tough testing; that her bolts were solid; that every running light came on when the toggle was flipped, and all screws were tightened down.

Two more weeks of rigorous testing would ensue … and then the new bird would join the ranks. Blackjack's mission was finished, his promotion assured.

_Fly, baby … fly!_

Semper Fi!

oooooooo

Blythe House was home alone. Again.

Lonely again. Angry again.

The Bishops had left for their weekend in San Francisco at her insistence. She would be fine. There was always housework to catch up on and piano pupils to keep her busy. This kind of stuff happened a lot in the Marine Corps ...

Twenty four hours after John left on TDY, she still had no idea what his destination was, or if and when he would call to tell her he had arrived safely. But that was not unusual. He'd left the house half angry and that was not unusual either. She'd said nothing at all to their friends.

John House had always been a gruff young man who was also capable of a quiet tenderness when he was in the right mood. His temper was mercurial, and had been that way from the time she'd first met him. His intense and precise military flight training had made him progressively more tight-lipped and personally guarded. His was an intensity that sometimes left her breathless.

During the early years of their life together she had admired the fierce sense of honor that lived within him. When she asked about his work in a manner he didn't feel comfortable with … even as a brash young pilot ... he would smile mysteriously and hold a finger to her lips in a shushing motion. She had once thought the gesture endearing. Nowadays it signified only that he harbored personal secrets he did not intend to reveal.

She could not even remember when things began to change. They just had. One day she came to realize that the original tenderness between them was disappearing. In its place, a castle with a moat and a drawbridge. Populated by alligators. She tried to ignore it.

Lately, John seemed full of self importance and self righteousness. He lived and breathed the Marine Corps. He also lived with the fact that his wife was slowly turning away from him because he had so little time for her. It did not seem to bother him.

Blythe concentrated on keeping their quarters immaculate and immersed her remaining energies into what she knew best: her music. She relished the time she spent on the piano lessons she'd begun to offer military dependants and their children.

Her friendship with Connie Bishop and a small circle of other service wives continued the same as always. Soon she had a small group of military dependants playing chords and running scales. Her success with these kids made her wonder whether in the future, she might inspire a child of her own to also coax magic from the keyboard of a piano.

Blythe kept quiet about the changes in her personal life, half believing John's tendency

to pull back into himself more and more was her fault entirely. She reassured herself that it was enough to have the security and stability of a patriotic and dedicated husband. But no matter how often she succumbed to that lie inside her own head, it just wasn't enough. Instead of a loving husband, she was always last in line with the whole goddamned Marine Corps standing in front of her.

Semper Fi!

Sometimes she cried herself to sleep, mad as a wet hen, but powerless to change anything.

John made no effort to call home from wherever he was. He was out there somewhere fulfilling his dreams and fantasies. Playing the hero. He had no thoughts for anything else. Sometimes Blythe wondered if the marriage would last. He was more in love with what he did for a living than with her.

Connie Bishop noticed. Her friend was not happy, though she never complained to anyone about how she was feeling. Blythe put on a brave face, but Connie feared that one of these days the woman would pack her bags and go home to Ohio where some other person, at least, cared whether she lived or died.

But Connie, also a service wife, kept her mouth shut as she was expected to do. Her silence was deeply ingrained. She said nothing to Walt. And _God Forbid _... nothing to Blythe.

oooooooo

The air base on Okinawa was a lively place on weekends.

1st Lt. Blackjack House worked hard and loved every moment of it. When he played, he played hard too. Damn straight! Fuckin' A! He was a "safe lay"; no qualms about seeking out willing females for one-night stands. His wife and his closest buddies weren't there to witness any transgressions and they would never be the wiser. He couldn't have cared less whether the accommodating woman was a pretty civilian or a good looking, hard-assed BAM. Or a member of WAF or WAC. All the same.

Immunity from pregnancy accusations where he was concerned were one hundred per cent, since all his little wigglers swam in a barren sea. He could prove his innocence easily enough; his medical records would readily tell the tale if it ever came to that. Which it didn't. He never found himself in a position where he had to disclose to the world that his pistol only shot blanks.

Blackjack House enjoyed Okinawa to its fullest potential. The only time he thought of his wife back home was on the odd evening when the space in the bunk beside him was void of a lay for the night.

Then he would think of Blythe, and lie in the darkness wondering why in hell she still put up with him ...

Semper Fi!

oooooooooooo

198


	30. Chapter 30

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #30

"The Weeds of Time Bear Bitter Fruit"

Miramar, California,

End of September 1958:

Blythe House closed the front door firmly behind the last piano pupil of the day. The sun was low in the sky and she still hadn't done her dishes from yesterday's grim attempt at supper-for-one. She wasn't hungry; hadn't been hungry for days. She ate only when necessary and even then, only stuff that was easy to prepare.

She had not heard from John since he left for TDY, except for a weather-smudged post card from the island of Okinawa saying he would be home in "a couple of days". She was glad he was all right at least, but still she had no idea what he might be doing on a remote island on the other side of the world.

Connie Bishop told her that Walt and Gil Stratton had both spoken with John via short wave radio from the base at Mitchler Field. Whatever John's mission was, which neither man would disclose, it left him little time for anything else. Gil confirmed the news when Blythe talked to him a day or two later. It didn't cheer her in the least. She had a feeling that both John's friends knew exactly what he was doing … and why. Gil was his usual suave, flirty self, teasing and grinning at her like a teenager. But he revealed no clue whatsoever about what her husband was doing on an isolated island so far away.

She thought military secrecy stank to high heaven.

Blythe turned off all the lights in the front living area of the house and closed the lid over the keys of the little spinet. She did not want to entertain any visiting neighbors this evening; especially not Gil Stratton and his latest girlfriend.

She walked back the hallway, past the bedroom, toward the tiny kitchen with the apartment-size refrigerator and stove and the small table wedged against the wall by the back door. She perched on one of the chairs, pushed the post card across the table and pressed it beneath her palm. Anger returned in a surge of adrenaline as Blythe sat and stared down at the card. It was only a faded rectangle of thin cardboard with an APO postmark: all the sentimentality of a U. S. Army circular announcing a canned-goods sale at the PX. When she'd signed on as a military wife, she had no idea of the restrictions it entailed. She had learned fast.

What was happening to her life? What was happening with her marriage? Looking around the unremarkable little kitchen, she realized how drab and devoid of warmth it really was. The furniture they'd purchased when they transferred here last summer overwhelmed the faded living room wallpaper and worn floors. The boxy console TV John had insisted upon as an afterthought, straddled a corner of the living room and reminded her of nothing more than an ugly doghouse with a large, dark doorway. Hers and John's wedding portrait sitting alone on top of the cumbersome thing did nothing to enhance the glaring impermanence of a house that was not a home.

Her loneliness sometimes overwhelmed her. Blythe wanted companionship and the pride of knowing her contribution to her marriage meant something special to the man she loved. John took her efforts as his due without comment. He made himself comfortable, no matter where they happened to be, but seldom complimented her on anything she did to please him. When once he said a meal she prepared was better than the ones they served at officers' mess, she was flattered. It didn't occur to her then that she deserved much more.

Their nomadic existence kept them far away from family and friends for long periods

of time. Blythe wrote long, newsy letters to those back in Ohio and Pennsylvania, and received long, newsy letters from Sarah and her mother in return. Blythe devoured them eagerly and sometimes imagined herself and John back there among them. She would sit at the little table and scribble fanciful descriptions of exotic locations and mail them off under the APO banner. They were mostly half-truths that camouflaged her feelings of isolation. Their relatives back east had no need to know how homesick she was. She would not whine to them about it. She was living with her own choices; her own decisions.

It just wasn't enough.

"Blackjack House" was becoming a heroic figure in the Marine Corps. His great love and consuming passion was airplanes and flying, something about which Blythe knew nothing. Her formal education encompassed a broad base of liberal arts and world history; not jet planes, flight-line jargon and battle tactics. She'd already read a stack of confusing tech manuals; went to the base library and looked up information on marine aviation. She did not understand the nuances of Jarhead slang.

The United States Marine Corps did not speak Blythe's language either. It was like the medical articles she sometimes read about new "miracle drugs" and scientific efforts to "break the blood-brain barrier." Was that anything like "breaking the sound barrier?" She had no idea.

She finally gave up and went back to teaching piano and being "just a housewife".

Blythe never confided these concerns to her best friend, Connie Bishop, because she did not want to appear disloyal or discontent. They spoke mainly about husbands, babies, cooking, movies and the hit parade. They sometimes discussed Gil Stratton's latest girlfriend. They speculated whether or not he would ever grow up and settle down.

John House's increasingly confidential security levels forbade him to speak of his own passion for the skies unless it was with Walt or Gil. And so, at home, he never said much. Blythe was a little jealous.

John, himself, was capable of great tenderness and enthusiasm in their marital bed, and Blythe had to remind herself of that fact constantly. When he was on furlough and she was alone with him in the still of night, they held each other as they had when they were first married. They laughed together and spoke of their future and expressed their love in a raucous physical manner. Those were the happiest moments of Blythe's married life.

Sadly, those times were few and far between these days. The light of another dawn always found him eager to be off again to meet his _other _lover; the one that gave him wings and made him oblivious to Blythe's growing apathy. It was little consolation for the bleakness that was slowly closing in on his wife.

For John House the life of a Marine was always what he had dreamed about when he was a kid. He remained oblivious of the hurricane of discontent brewing around him.

As time went by, Blythe House found herself longing more and more for a child; a little one who looked a bit like her and a bit like John; someone she could hold close, and to whom she could whisper soft words. She began to feel a deep desire for a tiny human being to absorb the excess of love that overflowed from her heart; love that her husband seemed to have such little time or inclination for. Her biological clock ticked away the minutes and the days while she needed to be needed. The presence of a baby would fulfill that need.

Blythe hoped the man she'd married would consent to stay home sometime, long enough to touch her body, hold her close, kiss her and make her tremble with want … and then make love to her … pass his seed to create a tiny son or daughter. She would love to have someone to help fill the lonely hours while he was off saving the world. Someone she and her husband could nurture and guide lovingly from infancy to adulthood.

She felt too awkward to express those desires in words. John might take them the wrong way. He might think she was trying to replace him as the most important person in her life. Blythe had learned a long time ago that when you married an officer in the U. S. Marines, you assimilated the tight-lipped attitude of the service. Keep quiet unless you can improve upon the silence. Don't tell what you know, even to your best friend. "Loose lips sink ships." And on and on.

_If only … _

Suddenly she was crying, her face a blotched mess, buried in the bend of an elbow on the table's surface. Great hiccupping sobs arose to accompany the tears and she felt like a fool. No Marine wife ever sank to this level of despair, loneliness, insecurity … and with the fear of slowly being abandoned.

The postcard, still clutched in her sweat-damped hand, had been reduced to a wad of unidentifiable pulp. She lifted her arm, hauled back, and threw it at the trashcan.

Her body was shaking and it was difficult to sit still. She looked around the place, vision blurring. Frustrated, she daubed her runny nose with the back of her hand. Her house was immaculate, as always, except for the few dishes still in the sink. She did not want to calm down by trying to read a book or listen to the radio. There was nothing interesting on the damned television, and all she had for company were dark thoughts and a shameful tendency to feel sorry for herself.

She threw a sweater across her shoulders to ward off the breezy California night. She turned off the kitchen light and stepped out the back door, closing it firmly behind her.

It was almost 10:00 p.m. now, and fully dark. She was not the least bit tired.

She decided to walk over to the flight line and spend an hour or so in mindless limbo, watching incoming and outgoing aircraft from the retaining wall behind the perimeter fence. She would watch their bright lights blazing trails through the dark sky and lose herself in the roar of Doppler-effect echoes of incoming planes with corded rubber tires that screeched and smoked when they hit the tarmac. She would gaze outward, listening to the similar roar of others of their breed taking off through the dazzling display of airfield landing lights …

Blythe's tears slowly dried in the breeze as she walked.

oooooooo

That night, Gilbert Stratton was mad as a hatter. His evening had not gone well.

He had met a spectacular woman in one of the popular hangouts downtown. She was a stubborn, clever, devastatingly beautiful blue-eyed blonde in a tight sweater and pegged blue jeans. She had turned his brain to jelly and his love machine to a painfully engorged length of lead pipe.

She had laughed in his face when he drunkenly suggested they leave together and visit a nearby motel. She showed no interest whatsoever in his worn-out pickup lines or his sour breath. Giggling loud enough for the rest of the bar patrons to overhear, she told him he hadn't the remotest chance of coaxing her into following him out the door like an obedient concubine. She definitely would _not _take her clothes off or spread her legs to accommodate his pathetic panting instincts. She had more pride than that, and no desire to copulate with a walking septic tank. She would rather march naked, tarred and feathered, through the bright lights of Broadway in Manhattan on New Year's Eve.

Gil was not only red-faced with embarrassment, but furious all the way to his eyeballs. Everyone at the bar had witnessed the one-sided exchange, and they were laughing and making toasts to his humiliation. He had, after all, spent barely ten minutes in her presence, and she had shut him down and tied his gut in knots. Other bar patrons were still laughing when he reeled away from the whooping gathering and stumbled into the night. He wobbled to his car, suddenly not so drunk anymore, but with a boner in his jeans that interfered with the way he sat in the drivers' seat of the little MG.

He fired up the car and revved its powerful engine. His inebriated state was running off him like water off a duck's back when he put the thing in gear, roared away down the block, and sped out of town in the direction of the base.

Gil Stratton had never been embarrassed like that before in his entire life. And yet, he was fascinated. He knew he had to see that beautiful blonde bitch again.

He didn't go back to the BOQ right away, but thundered onto the base, throwing a sloppy highball salute at the MP on the main gate. He barreled on and headed across to the landing strip.

oooooooo

Blythe House sat alone on the cement wall behind the chain-link fence near the flight line. A long string of multicolored landing lights on the criss-cross of runways threw stippled reflections back toward the spot where she sat.

The stutter of the MG's engine sounded like corn popping from a distance as the car geared down. Blythe glanced up from her hunched posture as headlights bobbed up

and down from the access road to her right.

_Oh good Lord ... not now!_

The car careened closer in a cloud of dust and sod along the fence, no more than thirty feet or so from Blythe's position. Headlights and brake lights flared as it circled around and skidded to a stop. The driver's door flew open and bounced against its hinges. Gil Stratton heaved himself out onto the grass and stumbled about for balance. He stalked clumsily to the chain link fence and grabbed at its links, staring out at the landing strip. Then he began to yank the expanse of links back and forth, in and out with both hands until the whole section vibrated loudly between the metal posts that held it.

Blythe dipped her shoulders and drew herself into the smallest possible bundle, watching the man who was her husband's best friend; take out a pique of childish anger upon an immovable object. The last thing she needed was for Stratton to see her.

He was alone and half loaded, which told her most of the story. She had no desire to listen to a diatribe of angry insults against some faceless female who did not suffer fools gladly.

In spite of herself, Blythe smiled at what looked exactly like an angry toddler having a temper tantrum. Gil pounded his fists on the chain-link fencing hard enough to inflict bruises. He had probably been unable to bully some canny female into submitting to him. The metal barrier took the place of the woman he could not, in good conscience, beat black and blue. It was his hands instead that would be black and blue in the morning.

Served him right!

She kept silent and unmoving; watching and hoping he would wear himself out and leave again without discovering her presence.

Finally he stopped the self-abuse and stood like a silent statue for a short span of moments. He fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a rumpled pack of Camels, taking great pains to extract one from the pack.

He heaved a frustrated sigh and turned in her direction to light the cigarette in the lee of the wind.

Gil Stratton's gaze rose idly to scan the darkened expanse of wall.

He flipped the cigarette away quickly as their eyes met ...

oooooooooooo

204


	31. Chapter 31

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #31

"A Case of No Defense"

Lexington

Wednesday,

January 21, 2009

He awoke at 4:45 a.m., achy and disoriented. His mouth felt like it was full of paper napkins and his head thumped dully. Damn!

Ligaments in his leg were tight, pulling his consciousness to the surface. He'd overdone it a bit yesterday when he and Blythe and Wilson ventured into Lexington to get out of the house, breathe some fresh winter air and run a few errands.

Tuesday had been odd, for a couple of reasons.

oooooooo

He still felt slightly humbled by Wilson's ministrations early in the morning. He had

not said anything to his friend about the hands-on approach to his painful leg spasm,

and he felt guilty for the lapse. Lame jokes in the kitchen afterward just didn't hack it. Ever since the infarction Wilson had hung in the background to help any way he could

when House suffered breakthrough pain.

However, Wilson had surely gone above and beyond the call of duty. He not only

side-stepped House's use of the dangerous morphine syringe, but had also nearly

compromised his own shoulder, arm and hand strength to apply some not-quite-

expert, but close-enough, hard massage to loosen the cramped thigh muscles.

House really should say something that might show his appreciation for the welcome pain relief. But what? And how? His communication skills were outrageously lacking in that department, and he would hate to embarrass himself trying to communicate that which Wilson probably already knew anyway.

_Problem solved: keep quiet!_

He still hadn't concluded that sticky conversation with his mother, but he was sure it would happen soon enough. Their relationship had relaxed considerably and they were beginning to feel a little more at ease around each other. Their banter on Sunday had remained light and sprinkled with smiles and laughter. It was a rather good feeling,

and House vowed he would do nothing to spoil it.

A few times he'd spied hooded glances coming from Wilson's direction; most of them approving. He hated to think that Wilson might become self-satisfied and smug over his part in the apparent reconciliation and his own heroic actions on House's behalf.

oooooooo

Monday, downtown, in the middle of a crowded department store, House had caught another brief glimpse of the tall, oddly familiar, woman. There'd been that sense of not-quite recognition that froze him once again to the spot, staring, wondering where he'd seen her before. His eyes followed her closely as she walked down distant aisles, and then continued toward the front of the store. He could have sworn she'd paused deliberately and looked him in the eye before she turned away and walked outside.

It was the same woman he'd seen in the restaurant earlier. Who the hell _was_ she? He knew no such person in Lexington. Actually, he did not know _anyone _in Lexington. When he rejoined his mother and Wilson, he found his friend frowning at him but quickly glancing away as their eyes met. He ignored the questions in Wilson's look.

Had Wilson caught him staring and wondering … ?

Honest-to-god, he had not been staring at her with anything sexual in mind. He had just been … _staring _…because she was drop-dead gorgeous.

oooooooo

House lifted his head from the pillow and looked around. There was nothing in the air but hushed whispery sounds. Normal for a house this size. He could hear Wilson's slow, deep breaths drifting across the room. _At least_, he thought, _he's not sawing down oak trees this morning._ He eased down again, coaxing the mild discomfort to back off. Pre-dawn shadows formed a dark line of soft figures on the wall, and he lay aware of them, but not quite distinguishing shapes as they moved to and fro. Tree branches gently undulating outside the window eased the ache in his head and the one in his leg.

The room was warm. A bundle of blankets once again lay in a heap across his lower body, this time heaped, but not constricting. Turned on his left side, his arm found its way beneath the pillow, his head sinking into the deepening indentation. He was quite relieved that he had not had any disturbing dreams last night. Maybe his mom and Wilson were right.

The lull didn't last long. After a few minutes he looked up with a sigh and pushed the covers the rest of the way to the foot of the bed. He should be getting up. The large house was still, and free of early habitation. Again he welcomed the thought of early morning solitude.

Across the room the sleeping form of James Wilson reminded him of a dark boulder,

half buried in a woolen landscape. A smile tugged at the corners of House's mouth: part triumph and part affection. Wilson was finally relaxing his annoying tendency to startle awake every time House moved.

He slid his free hand beneath his leg, propelling it to the edge of the mattress and down. He sighed and sat up. His headache was easing, thankfully, but his thigh complained as it always did in the morning. He sat quietly on the edge of the bed, his mind blanked of any complicated intrusions, letting recollections of yesterday's adventure drift again through his consciousness.

oooooooo

House and Blythe and Wilson had driven into town early, Blythe keeping up a running narrative about points of interest in the city. They drove past the Lambert Funeral Home, from which John House had gone to his final resting place. No one mentioned the building or the funeral. Wilson just kept driving.

They ran errands and shopped for groceries and supplies.

Blythe recommend an upscale restaurant called 'The Country Cupboard', a charming bistro near the busy center of town that she and John used to frequent. It was one of those pleasant places that had garnered a reputation for quiet elegance, catering to the noontime business crowd dining there with important clientele and all about the ambiance.

The weather was cold on this January day, and Lexington's streets were lightly populated. They were glad to step inside beyond the tall glass doors of the eatery and take in pleasant winter décor while absorbing the tantalizing smells of delicious home-cooked cuisine. They removed their coats and hung them on a convenient rack in the vestibule, and had gone only a few steps further when they were met by a tall slender waiter in white shirt and tight black jeans.

"Good day, Mrs. House. Welcome. May I seat you?"

"You may, Robert, and thank you."

They exchanged niceties and then the three of them were led to a corner table tucked between a display cabinet full of quaint dinnerware and a wide window framed by bright peasant draperies. Robert left them with thick menus after taking their drink orders and quickly departing.

None of them spoke; each absorbing the quiet atmosphere of the place and scanning the menus. Delicious aromas emanated from their surroundings. Scented candles on the tables, fresh baked goods from the glass display case near the cash register, and dinner smells from the kitchen in the back had their noses wriggling with pleasure.

House made his choices quickly. A steaming cup of coffee to begin … oh yeah … and he hadn't had a Reuben in a long time. He placed his menu on the table before him and picked up the cup of piping hot coffee that the waiter delivered post haste. He took a sip of the hot savory stuff and sighed with pleasure, looking around casually.

The restaurant had the look and appeal of a neat country tavern, immaculately kept and peppered with well-crafted homemade decorations. Most of the tables were occupied by hungry diners at this noontime hour, and conversations drifted in the air like honey bees gathering nectar.

A few people were standing up front, waiting to pay their bills or purchasing cookies

and baked goods from the well-lit glass case. House scanned their faces and forms nonchalantly, as one does when one waits for his lunch order. He felt his eyebrows drawing together in sudden puzzlement, however, when his gaze fell upon the third person in line at the cash register. Her back was mostly turned in his direction, so he didn't see all of her face. She was tall and slender and fair-skinned and wore winter boots with high heels and a long coat with a dark fur collar. Fuzzy grey earmuffs framed honey colored hair that fell well past her shoulders.

House saw the woman only in profile, and only long enough to watch her pay her bill, smile at the clerk and then deliberately turn further to catch and hold his eye for the briefest moment. She then turned back, nodded to the cashier, and walked out of the restaurant. He frowned. Somewhere he had seen her before … but where? She was beautiful, but not overwhelmingly so. He hadn't time to apprise much of her stature or her face to get an indication of where they might have met, or under what circumstances.

House hadn't known he'd been holding his breath until he became aware of having been spoken to.

"Sir? May I take your order please, sir?"

Blythe scowled at him. "Gregg?"

The waiter was at his elbow, pad in hand, and his mother and Wilson were staring at him questioningly. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and brought himself back to the moment.

"Reuben," he said sharply. "Plain. No pickles."

"Where were you … in the Twilight Zone again?" Wilson asked with a twinkle when Robert had gathered their menus and gone. "He spoke to you twice before you finally answered him." Wilson was smiling, but there was quiet concern in his eyes.

Across from him, Blythe's eyebrows were raised in question and her gaze was riveted on her son's "recovering-from-a-dream" face, though she said nothing.

He pulled himself together at once, letting one of his deceptively virtuous expressions fill the contours of his face. He shrugged, also an old gesture of sham innocence. "I guess I was just woolgathering for a minute," he said, covering quickly. "I was thinking about the time you and Dad and I were out for a Sunday drive in the old station wagon, and we stopped for dinner at a place that looked a lot like this. Sorry …"

They both backed off when Blythe said: "Now that you mention it, dear, I do remember the place. Not here. It was called The Dutch Pantry, and it was in Pennsylvania. It was a really long time ago …"

_WHEW! Damn near blew that one!_

oooooooo

They took their time over the excellent lunch. When they were ready to leave, Wilson picked up the bill and excused himself to go up front to pay it.

Blythe studied her son quietly as he reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew his Vicodin vial. She watched as he spilled two of them into his palm, took them with a swallow of water and returned the vial to its pocket. She knew, of course, that he was well aware of her scrutiny. She smiled when he raised his head slightly and stared up at her from beneath furrowed brows.

"I can almost hear the wheels spinning inside your head, Mom," he said in a teasing tone. "You know that I take an ungodly number of these. I assure you, they're necessary. You wouldn't like who I am when I'm without 'em."

She nodded. "I know, dear. But it's just so unfair …"

He snorted. "I sometimes dance with the devil, I guess."

She stared back at him with a confused frown.

He smiled benignly.

oooooooo

They picked up an order from KFC and drove home in early evening as darkness began to fall. They stashed groceries and ate takeout at the kitchen island. They munched on crunchy chicken and cole slaw and baked beans, and then cleaned up the few dishes, put away the leftovers and relaxed in the cozy living room. They laced their coffee with Bailey's Irish Cream.

House gravitated to the piano. He and his mother needled Wilson until Wilson threw up his hands in resignation and clumped back to their bedroom for the little guitar. The two played softly together; old stuff, mostly ballads; music they knew Blythe would enjoy. House chided Wilson for twanging sour notes, and Wilson accused House of playing in the cracks as much as on the keys.

There were smiles and occasional laughter.

The night ended quietly. They said their good nights and Wilson and Blythe headed to bed about 11:00 p.m.

Gregg lingered in the old recliner. "I'll be in to bed before too long. I just want to sit here and not hurt for a while longer. You two go ahead. Sleep well." As they retreated, Gregg felt a little puzzled over what might have caused him speak so politely … and why Wilson's questioning eyes looked back at him with such dark concern.

Ahhh … the hell with it.

Tomorrow was Thursday, and the week was passing quickly …

oooooooo

House was a little weak in the knees, due to all the walking they'd done downtown. He decided, however, that the exercise did him good: much better than if he'd spent the day wishing he were back in his office at the hospital, harassing the fellows and solving the puzzles. But he could not quite keep his uneasiness at bay.

Briefly he considered the mysterious woman: there and gone. Twice. Another puzzle, this one with not much chance of a solution. She'd woven quickly through his thoughts and flitted away.

He grasped his cane from where it was hooked over the side of the chair, and stood up. Hip and leg engaged with a jolt when he placed weight on the bad side, and he paused long enough to allow the tension to drain away. He was able to straighten with a minimum of protest a second or two later. He steadied himself and started out, wobbling down the hallway into the bath and eased the door shut.

House released his stream using only the dim night light for illumination. He must not bang around because Wilson was already asleep. He rinsed his hands beneath a silent trickle of warm water, flushed the toilet and waited for it to fill before easing open the bathroom door.

Wilson had not moved … still just a large murky lump beneath the covers.

Gregg moved stealthily across the darkened room and grasped the knob of the door to the hallway. He drew it open 'til it was wide enough to sidle through. He balanced his weight between cane and wall, moving deliberately toward the kitchen, taking long careful steps. He was wide awake. If he went to bed now, he would only toss and turn.

He popped the cap off the Vicodin bottle on the island and slid three of the white pills into his palm. Force of habit, he threw back his head and dry-swallowed.

There was leftover chicken in a takeout box in the refrigerator. The light that spread when he opened the door broke through the gloom. There were three pieces left in the

box. Quickly he grabbed a paper towel and a can of beer and stuffed them under his arm. He squinted through the dimness to be certain of his bearings, and then shuffled across to John House's old recliner. He eased down and set the chicken container in his lap. Did he really want to snack on this? Why-the-hell not!

House released the lever on the side of the chair's frame and pushed against the spring.

Shallow indentations that once conformed to his father's body enfolded him also as the ancient mechanism released backward. He sank into the depths and let himself loll.

His leg came up level and some of the ache abated. The Vicodin was kicking in.

It was dark. House felt a little insecure, perhaps because it had been so easy to sneak around the quiet house by himself. Sneak three pills instead of two. No one shaking a disapproving finger or looking over his shoulder.

He'd had many reservations about what this strange trip home meant to him in light of recent events. He knew he was obsessing about things over which he had no control. He was not a hero, at least in that regard. His mother's guarded expressions when she looked at him left him baffled; bothered by a strange feeling that there was something she needed him to do or say. The pretty woman he'd wondered about in Lexington was a large space in his mind that begged to be filled … but with what, he had no idea.

The pills were messing with his mind more and more these days, and the swift flow of booze he consumed at home was not as easy to obtain or conceal here. He drank as much of Blythe's supply as he could manage without arousing suspicion. He had to find a way to be rid of these excuses, especially the liquor, which sometimes interfered with his ability to concentrate. His pain wouldn't allow for reduction in Vicodin dosage. He'd spent years searching for an alternative painkiller he could live with, but there didn't seem to be one. He knew the strong meds would eventually contribute to his demise.

House picked up a drumstick and bit into it; pulled the meat off the bone and chewed solemnly. The tangy flavor killed the last bitterness of the Vicodin, effectively clearing the vengeful fury of his conscience. After a minute he bit off the remaining shreds, put the bone in the box and picked up another. Munched it quickly and thrust the bone into the box with the other one. Pulled the ring from the beer can and chug-a-lugged half.

oooooooo

House's mind fumbled over the inevitable discussion with his mom concerning the deceased U. S. Marine who was someone other than his biological father. He also dreaded any mention of the man who _was._ It was possible mother and son would both learn things neither of them had any desire to know: things that denied there even _was _a 'knowing'.

House had seen Gil Stratton lurking in the background at the Colonel's viewing last spring, but the man had not approached Gregg or Blythe. There might have been some words between his mother and the old fart before he and Wilson arrived, but Gregg doubted it. He wondered whether both of them were deliberately hiding a plethora of truths they were loath to even acknowledge, much less divulge.

They might be wondering how much Gregory House knew … or suspected. Or not.

The topic might be an ancient shell game between the two of them. The other shoe still hung suspended in the air by a slender thread. Would it ever drop?

Things could get dicey.

Gregg often wondered what in hell his mother was thinking to have had an affair with an idiot like Stratton. Not that he blamed her much ... her husband had been an asshole most of the time … although he did have one or two redeeming characteristics. He did not want to upset her by making some insensitive remark that fell from his lips in thoughtless anger. But what was he, if not insensitive? He did not relish having to edit every word he spoke.

_Tiptoe through the tulips ... _

House sighed and stared at the ceiling. As he did so, a dark, circular cigarette burn on the arm of the chair scraped against the underside of his right wrist. In an instant he recalled what it was and how it had come to be there ... another unconscionable incident that took place during the darkness of his life's early history.

Time coalesced … moving toward him and revealing another incident from his uncool childhood. The room around him faded away and opened up a completely different vista.

oooooooo

_Gregory House was thirteen. It was 1972 and the living room chair he sat upon was almost new. _

_Smoking in this room was taboo._

_Except … The Major smoked like a chimney anywhere he pleased ... always had._

"_Do as I say, not as I do!"_

_Gregg had heard that litany repeated over and over until he was sick to death of it._

_On this particular day, with no one else at home, he took refuge beneath the cellar steps with a stolen pack of unfiltered Camels. He was sneaky, but he hadn't become an expert yet. He indulged himself._

_Looking for his smokes awhile later and finding them missing, John House quickly became suspicious and began a room-by-room canvas. When he opened the cellar door he smelled the faint odor of garden fertilizer and stale gasoline from the old mower; all overridden by thick cigarette smoke puffed into the air by a kid who hadn't yet learned_

_to inhale. Gregg's secret was out. It hadn't lasted long. _

_John dragged the boy up the cellar steps by his shirt collar._

_Hovering over Gregg, slumped in the recliner, John forced his son to smoke one cigarette after another from what was left in the pack._

_Getting sicker by the minute, Gregg rebelled after the third cigarette in a row and jammed the lit end of the fourth one deep into the big chair's plush arm. The hot red ember burned a smelly, round hole in the synthetic fiber which melted the vinyl and quickly spread to the size of his dad's thumbprint._

"_Fuck you, you son of a bitch!" Gregg screamed ... and ran. John, still a young man, chased the youngster and caught him without much effort. _

_John made him sleep outside in the biting cold that night with one blanket, one pillow._

oooooooo

The stage scenery went away and the present moment flickered back into focus.

Gregory House was still in the colonel's recliner fingering the old burn hole. His eyes brimmed with tears held tightly in check.

Outside, trees and landscape were enfolded in blackness with no hint of definition. He sighed and supposed he should go-the-hell to bed. He was embarrassed at the painful rush of memories; tears that spilled over, dampening his cheeks. His chin fell to his

chest and the cold chicken and cold beer lay like a stone in his gut.

His leg hummed with tension. Every time he thought about his old man's disciplinary habits, it seemed his bum leg "became" his father ... letting him have it. House leaned back in the chair with a sigh. He was drained beyond measure and just too damn weary to get up. He'd sit here and relax a little longer, maybe …

oooooooooooo

213


	32. Chapter 32

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #32

"I Think I'm Losing My Mind"

Thursday morning,

January 22, 2009

About 1:00 a.m.

Gregg House snapped awake with a premonition of disaster. Nerves on fire and muscles cramped from head to toe, he took a few surreptitious glances around the room. He could feel

a presence, but it was too damn dark to determine what … or who ...

His friend the nearby street light must be blown out. It was darker than the inside of a witch's vagina. His belly felt like it was full of rocks. Somehow he'd leaned the old recliner back again and fallen asleep in some god-awful position. His right hand was still wrapped around the sticky paper towel. The KFC box with one piece of greasy chicken, plus the empty beer can were pressed hard between his hip and the side of the chair.

From the corner of the room came the faint squeak of a floorboard being pressed down.

_Oh Crap! … caught …_

But no.

Not Mom. Not Wilson.

Baxter.

Ears perked, tail pumping, the dog had smelled the chicken.

House pulled a deep breath, letting the moment of panic slide away. "I see your meat sensor

is working," he growled thickly. "Is there ever anything on your mind besides food and my life's many transgressions?" He disentangled his fingers from the raggedy paper towel and stuffed it back in the box. He wet his hands with dregs from the beer can and rubbed away the 'sticky'.

Baxter whined eagerly and moved closer to the recliner. His eyes were bright, tongue lolling, head tilted.

"_I smell meat. Wanna share?"_

House stared. It was the Colonel Voice.

Four years ago when he'd totaled his vintage Corvette on the Jersey Pike, his injuries nearly did him in. He'd blown a tire doing 80, broke through the guard rail and crashed in a rocky field twenty feet below.

The old Vette was way beyond repair. Cuts and scratches covered most of his body. Bones

in his right hand were broken and his bum leg got badly torn up from contact with the busted dashboard. He'd laid like a broken doll on the damp ground with a concussion and blood running down his face. The delicate surgery on his hand, thankfully, saved him from the permanence of not being able to practice his profession or play his piano again. Add to that,

life in a wheelchair because he could no longer use his cane.

Here stood the dog that saved his life after that one, and House remembered returning the favor. Baxter, rescued from euthanasia, found a home in Kentucky with John and Blythe.

Still staring at the collie, House reached to the takeout box, picked up the last chunk of chicken and pulled it off the bone. "Catch!"

Baxter "caught". Better than Yogi Berra. Better than Roy Campanella ...

The dog's jaws worked once, twice … and the meat was gone-gone.

House laid his warm palm over his scar and glared down at the animal. "You hardly chewed that! Trying to choke yourself to death? Not that I give a shit ..."

Baxter cocked his head from side to side, clearly looking for more. House's sarcastic comments had sailed over his head.

House smiled an evil smile. "Oh no you don't. You just gobbled the last piece, you pig."

Baxter sat down abruptly, curling his tail tightly about his paws. He looked up at House and licked his chops.

"_That's what dogs do, son. They don't waste time screwing around. They EAT!"_

House stared. "Oh shit. Not another lecture from a mangy mutt."

"_Yeah, a mangy mutt. Who the hell did ya think it was ... Rin Tin Tin?"_

"Rin Tin Tin? Hell no! Rinty was a hero ... and the wrong color for your lily white ass."

"_Only you could intentionally misinterpret what somebody says and turn it into something disagreeable."_

"Care to enlighten me about what I'm misinterpreting? I learned all my bad habits from you, y'know. Of all the assholes in the world, it was you who had to _pretend _to be my father. I couldn't get Robert Young? How lucky I was. You _could_ say what you mean in plain words, not wrap it in a layer of bullshit. You're a ..."

"_Tell ya the truth, Gregg; I had about as much chance of being your father as old Rinty did. You figured it out a long time ago, for Chrissake! The second your mother told me she was pregnant, I knew she'd been screwing somebody else. Kapeesh? You couldn't have been my kid. None of your DNA came out of ME!"_

Gregg's head came up swiftly. "You're lying! Howwould you have known that? It was almost fifty years ago. Are you a psychic or something? Or did you count the days since the last time you made love to her? How the hell would you already know I wasn't yours?

"Unless ..." House's eyes narrowed in abrupt epiphany.

"_Unless_ ... you were incapableof hitting home plate. That's it, isn't it? That's why that asshole Stratton is my old man and you're not. There's a 'schism' in your 'jizm'. No 'goose'in your 'juice'!

"_It was none of your freakin' business!"_

"Who the hell's business was it then, if not mine? I'm the result of your failure … it's not my fault you were shooting blanks. You're sterile!"

"_Congratulations. Aren't you the goddamn genius!?"_

"All this time you knew you weren't my dad ... and you knew who was."

"_Gregg ... listen to me ..."_

"Listen to what? More bullshit?""

"_Even I didn't know 'til after I got my induction physical. When I found out, I hid it. Burned the proof. Never told a god-damned soul. I was afraid you'd rat on me the summer you found out. Don't look at me like that! I saw that damn genealogy book on your bed. But you didn't blab … and I went to my grave wondering why. What I don't know is how you figured out it was Gil Stratton. You were ashamed, weren't you?"_

"Ashamed? Yeah, you're right about that. I did the math and figured out that you were still on maneuvers in Okinawa when I was conceived. DUH! Stratton's been making goo-goo eyes at Mom ever since I was in diapers. I guess you made her lonely enough to finally try him on for size. The thing that bugs me most is that Neela Stratton is my _sister! _It doesn't matter how I stumbled onto that one ...

"I learned early on what real humiliation was, Dad. I never told anybody what I knew because you're right … I was ashamed. Ashamed of you for being a liar, and ashamed of myself for never talking about the shit we all went through, thanks to you and your goddamned Marine

Corps."

For a moment Baxter the collie had a contrite look on his furry face.

"_Well, I hope to God you never decide to tell your mother about this after all this time. She admitted to a one-nighter with Stratton a couple of days after I came home from Okinawa, and we had a long talk. After she told me why she did it, I got the message, loud and clear … if you get my meaning. I was an ass, but I never cheated on her again._

"_A month or so later she told me she was pregnant. She was ecstatic, and she had no idea you were Stratton's. Your mom is a smart cookie, but in those days you just didn't talk about such stuff. It wasn't like it is today. She thought you were mine. She had no clue I was sterile. She was a product of the Victorian era. Her parents were like clams … never even told her the facts of life. She learned about making babies from me! A liberal arts and music education doesn't have many biology or anatomy classes, and she never had an outside job. She got all of her 'sand-lot sex-ed' from a bunch of gossipy military wives. _

"_It sucks, but that's how it was. Your mom was naïve then, and she's naïve now. Those were different times, Gregg. She was so happy about having you, I just left it go. I kept my mouth shut and rode it out from the time I was a flight probie. She thinks you're mine, and the truth now would only break her heart. There were no DNA tests then … and she has no reason to _

_ask for one now._

"_For what it's worth, son, I've never been so sorry about anything in my whole freakin' life. I didn't do right by you or your mother, and I hope you can forgive me some day …"_

Gregory House's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Complications on top of complications. He had not seen this coming and it hit him over the head with contradictions and uncertainty. Had this man actually been protecting his wife all these years; even swallowing the humiliation of her admitted liaison with another man?

House could think of no better proof of love than the secret his old man had kept to himself for nearly fifty years. This revelation sort-of stamped a gold star on John House's incredibly empty credit side. What other information was out there that he was still unaware of?

Had Blackjack House actually done something that honorable? He had to be sure.

"You want me to forgive you because you were a knight-in-shining-armor one time? Well, you don't just get off that easy. You 'forgave' the wife you cheated on a hundred times? Talk about double standards! I didn't tell anybody because I didn't want to be like the bastard you were as

a husband and father. Fate wasn't kind for you or me, Dad … because I grew up to be you anyhow."

Baxter stood up and began to back away.

"_Christ!" _The dog-Colonel voice said._ "It's still all about you, huh? I get the blame because you still wanna act like a jerk. _

"_If you thought I was such an asshole, why didn't you just turn it around? Why didn't you grow up to be Prince Charming? You have your own free will. As a doctor you've worked miracles for others, or so I've heard. But as a human being you keep missing the mark. You still blame me for all your baggage? _

"_Well, go take a long hard look in a mirror!" _

House did not answer. His mounting consternation was a bolt of lightning sizzling down his spine and traveling the length of his crippled leg. He cringed. The colonel still had the ability

to humiliate him ... even from beyond the grave.

What was worse, the old man's argument held an uncomfortable twang of truth.

The room grew very quiet; lit with pulsating thrusts of static electricity, morose contemplations tumbling about in his brain, and the beginning of a new day.

When House finally looked up again, Baxter was gone, and so was the unwelcome presence

of his father … or whoever-the-hell he was …

oooooooooooo

5


	33. Chapter 33

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #33

"Cat'n'Mouse"

Mitchler Field

Officers' Housing

Miramar, California

Mid-1971

He was flat on his back, both arms stretched upward, fingers laced behind his head. He was staring at the ceiling, thinking hard; contemplating actions and analyzing options forward, as though calculating future moves in a chess game opposite a cagey opponent.

Next to him on the bed lay a book. No creases yet pressed onto the pages hard enough to separate the spine. There were no pencil notations in the margins. No dog ears, no little smudges from a teenager's soiled hands. His own initials on the card pocket glued inside the back cover announced him as the first (and last) borrower.

"Man and Heredity" by Roderick; copyright 1968. It was virgin material from the base library, sneaked off the "return" pile and squirreled away in his knapsack. None of

his classmates would have been interested in the topic it discussed at length. Not many twelve-year-olds ... in fact not a single one that he knew of ... would be caught dead with

this particular book cracked open within view of an adult. (Unless, of course, one of them found out that the volume was generously and graphically illustrated.)

There was a good reason why he needed the book.

A few weeks ago Gregory House had experienced an incident that scared holy hell out

of him and it had bugged him ever since. It was like being chased through the woods

by a wounded bear, or getting trapped inside a burning building with no way out. The experience had gripped his gut with iron fingers and wouldn't let go.

Damndest thing about it ... it hadn't even been his fault!

It wasn't that there was anything special about Neela Stratton. She was just a girl. Not that great looking and not that smart. She was two years younger than him; not even to an age yet where she got those pimply breakouts on her face every month. She had no ass, no boobs; not even little buttons you could see against her tee-shirt. Her old man wouldn't even let her wear lipstick. Neela was as innocent as the driven snow.

Or that's what Gregg had thought then.

Neela's dad flew fighter jets with John House and Walt Bishop, another Marine major. The three were good at what they did to the point of the Marine Corps reassigning them as a team again and again.

Thus, the House house, the Stratton house and the Bishop house always ended up in the same neighborhood ... world-wide ... on base or off. Jeez! Like they wouldn't be able to find each other if one family lived in a different part of town from the others.

Gregg often scoffed to himself that that kind of reasoning was typical of "Military Intelligence".

oooooooo

Gregg House and Neela Stratton walked to and from school together as a rule. But today the Bishop kids and Neela's younger brother all peeled away in another direction after the last dismissal bell.

Suddenly Neela grabbed hold of Gregg's hand and yanked him off the sidewalk into a clump of young trees and bushes. Surprised, he locked his knees and planted his sneakers in the grass. "What are you doing?"

She didn't answer his question. "Just come on!" She grunted. "I want to show you something ..."

Reluctant, but intrigued, he followed.

When they were out of sight of the street in the small circle of undergrowth, she stopped abruptly, turned, and pulled him close to her.

Wide-eyed, he resisted. "What the hell's the big idea, Neela?"

"You're awful stupid for a smart kid," she retorted.

Like being hit on the head with a brick, Gregory House understood. He dropped

his schoolbooks to the ground and wrapped his long skinny arms around her waist, quickly reaching down with intent to grope under her skirt. Neela squealed and

pushed his hands away, but didn't try to stop him from the embrace.

They stood awkwardly close together, uncertain what to do next. Both felt the odd tingling in their senses and an acute awareness of the warmth of two bodies in magnetic attraction. It felt taboo. Forbidden. Really good. They leaned closer, like puppies nuzzling each other, into a tentative kiss. Neither really understood the mechanics of where or how to place their noses and mouths or arrange their faces so everything fit precisely together. They were a tangle of gawky elbows, clumsy hands and sloppy wetness.

Gregg drew back, looking quizzically into Neela's face, and discovered a beauty there that he'd never quite noticed before. Her moist lips pretty much harmonized with his own; a tangy flavor of wild tartness tinged with bold impudence.

Purely experimental.

They were both into virgin territory: eager, but uncertain. He reached both hands up the sides of her face, sliding his fingers into her soft pixie haircut, gazing in intent wonder. His gut clenched. Everything below his belt began to pulse unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

Then Gregg froze suddenly with a grunt of dismay.

The clenched feeling that had felt so good dropped away as though he'd been sucker punched. His nether regions felt like they had just deflated. Beneath his thumb, Neela's thick hair parted, golden strands fluttering aside like corn silk to reveal the unmistakable light wine stain of a small birthmark on her scalp, buried beneath her hairline.

Gregory House uttered a sound somewhere between a squeak and a choke. He jumped back and away from her thin arms, just as they were closing around him in response.

"Christ almighty!" He hissed.

He snatched his books off the ground, whirled about and ran out of the thicket, away from the secluded little glen and away from Neela's startled reaction; down the street and gone. He did not stop running until he was home, in the door, up the steps and locked in his bedroom, panting, sweating and swearing, senses whirling.

Gregg dropped the books on his bed and hurried over to the triple mirror on the old dresser against the far wall. He bent forward, fingers carefully parting the tangled thatch of brown curls on his scalp.

There it was, on the right side and in the exact same spot where he'd found Neela's; the small raised blotch of strawberry birthmark.

"Oh No! Oh shit no! This is insane!"

But it was disturbingly real.

oooooooo

A day later, Gregg searched the library for the right volume, seeking to confirm his suspicions. At last he found it: "Man and Heredity".

Two days after that, he'd absorbed most of it. For weeks he avoided Neela Stratton like she was a carrier of the plague, not allowing her to get close enough to ask questions. She kept her distance, but he knew she watched him with eyes like an injured fawn.

Then he'd put his formidable twelve-year-old brain to the task of figuring things out.

When the book was due, he returned it to the library ...

... and then stole it back off the return rack and crammed it into his book bag on the way out.

Gregg mended fences with Neela after that, but never said a word about what he'd learned. Only thing was, he had no way to confirm, either way, what he suspected.

He and Neela never experimented with intimacy again.

oooooooo

It was already too warm when Neela Stratton threw back her sheets and padded to the bathroom. The sun was nothing but a shimmery halo on the horizon; another simmering California sunrise. It was the first day of summer vacation and her first waking awareness was of boredom. And restlessness.

An old Polar Cub fan on her dresser clanked and whirred and did nothing but stir stale

air around in a circle. She clicked it off and threw herself down on the end of the bed. She crawled to her usual perch against the window sash. Her shortie pajamas scrooched up the insides of her thighs like they had grown tentacles. The seam at the crotch crawled upward again. She reached under the elastic waistband and pulled the material out and away with a grunt.

Neela crooked her elbow on the window sill to brace her chin on the heel of her hand. Her watchband slid down and she pushed it back impatiently. When tucked into the corner between wall and window with her forehead against the wood, she could see across the narrow side yard that separated the two houses. Most of Gregg House's room was directly within her line of sight and she could make out the lower half of his body and the foot of his bed jutting away from the far wall.

His bedroom had no curtains because he didn't like them, and he kept the sashes lifted to their limits to catch the small amount of air entering the room through open windows.

From behind the filmy layer of her own white sheers, Neela was nearly invisible. Gregg always slept in his skivvies, sometimes less, with his bedroom door slightly ajar and the hall light casting a glow across the floor.

She knew he didn't like the dark, the big sissy, and he never pulled his blinds all the way down. Street lights further along the block helped keep boogie men away.

Gregg moved freely, squirming about on his bed like a fish through the water, while Neela maintained the correct angle between their houses. She could not see his eyes and therefore decided he could not see hers. When the light was right, she could watch him sleep, watch him wake and stretch ... and whatever came after that. It was sort-of like hanging back and studying an interesting image of a young Greek nude from a distance.

Gregg House was going to be tall, her dad and mom opined. Big hands, big feet, he would be slender and lanky, unlike Major House and Mrs. House who were both a little on the compact side. Gregg's height, even at twelve years of age, was a family trait that had probably skipped a generation. Neela always heard that Gregg's Aunt Sarah was a tall lady. Neela could never quite figure out how all that genetic stuff worked within families. She'd heard it mentioned in health and science classes, but she barely listened to that stuff . It was sort of a new thing that scientists and doctors had rustled up.

Fascinating and boring at the same time.

If she looked carefully, she could make out the bony ridge of Gregg's hip and jagged backbone ... all the way down to where it disappeared between his narrow ass cheeks. There was not a spare ounce of flesh on that skinny behind. His body hair was beginning to look sort-of grownupish now, reminding her of feathers on a duckling. Her own had not got that far yet. The smattering of bristles "down there" on Gregg House was kind of brownish, although the thick curly mop on his head was a light chestnut that glistened in the sun ... if that counted for anything ...

Sometimes she caught a glimpse of one of his hands slipping downward to fondle his privates experimentally. This never failed to make her giggle; his pubescent member moving gently against his fingers. Even from this distance she could see it bucking and knew what it meant. She always ducked behind the curtain folds, knowing he would startle himself awake, hands damp, stomach cramping. Once she had seen his hand close around his penis, beginning a frenzied up-and-down motion. Eyes wide and mouth gaping, she'd scrambled back, embarrassing herself nearly to tears. But that had not stopped her from watching again.

Gregg seemed to be back to his old self now, some weeks after he'd bolted away from her like a restless colt. She still didn't know what that was all about. She supposed she'd scared him off. Literally. He was, after all, a little skittish about the damndest things. Some of the brainier kids, she'd noticed, were a little backward that way.

This morning though, Gregory House was deeply asleep, stretched out on his belly. The twin humps of his butt were not quite covered by the sheet. One skinny leg hung over the side of the bed, toes nearly brushing the floor. She could not see his face or his arms, nor could she maneuver to get a closer look. The juxtaposition of his windowsill with hers made it impossible. She would like to remedy that, but there was no way to do it without giving herself away. The best thing was the fact that he could not see her from that angle either. She was too deep in morning shadow.

oooooooo

Across the lawn that separated them, Gregory House lay on his stomach with his head turned to the far wall opposite Neela Stratton's little hidey hole. She couldn't see him from the shoulders up, but he could see her. All of her. This struck him as funnier than hell. All she had to do was change her position on her bed, and she would be able to see as much of him as he could of her. Neela was just too dumb to figure it out.

His belly shook with laughter he could scarcely contain. He was looking into the lower right corner of the triple mirror against his far wall. And there she was: Cleopatra in shortie pajamas.

Gregg had hated that damned old dresser from the time his mom first dumped it off in

his room. Now the thing was taking on an entirely new fascination. Interesting stuff

to be seen in that mirror ... like bright blue eyes peering right at him from behind sheer window curtains in the house next door ... seemingly focused intently on the huge poster of a human skeleton he'd scotch taped to the wall beside his closet.

_Stupid female. Just like a woman!_

Christ! He was beginning to think like his old man.

A liaison between him and Neela, however, might be kind of disgusting if the things he'd found out … or _thought_ he'd found out … were really true …

Odds were ... Neela Stratton would turn out to be his own freakin' sister!

_Jesus Boom!_

oooooooooooo

224


	34. Chapter 34

ROAD RAGE

Chapter #34

"Mutual Consent"

Miramar, California,

Late on a Monday evening

September, 1958

Blythe House sat immobilized, wishing she could just disappear into the solid composition of the wall beneath her.

Still angry with John and even more angry with herself for feeling so strongly, she couldn't take her eyes off the startled man gaping at her from the vague, light-limned haze along the fence.

She saw Gil Stratton shade his eyes from the glare of the runway lights with the wedge

of his hand. He bent forward for a closer look, and then cat-stepped in her direction.

She watched him with mounting disdain. He appeared slightly drunk; nothing unusual for him, of course. John's definition of the condition would have been: "shit-faced".

Suddenly it was as though the pleats of her skirt were glued to the cement. Her thoughts were becoming jumbled: alarm mixed with a flurry of other conflicting emotions.

"W-what are _you_ doing here?" Gil Stratton stuttered as he approached the wall at Blythe's side. He smiled with disarming appeal.

She stared at him, searching for coherent words. Her reply, when it came, rang in her head as absurd and inadequate. "Sitting here watching you make a fool of yourself and wondering what the hell you're so pissed off about _this_ time …"

"How do you know I'm pissed off, pretty lady?"

She frowned. "Because you were acting like a kid … beating on an inanimate object that couldn't beat back, but could make you bloody anyway."

His face rearranged itself quickly. Held up his hands to prove they weren't bloody. Typical Stratton. Charm the girls with a thousand-watt grin.

The smile ramped up further. "You just surprised me," he said. "I've never known you to swear … or hang around the flight line. You're lonesome for the Lieutenant, huh?"

Blythe was not sure what he was getting at. She felt a cold chill run down her spine.

"I was bored, I suppose. The 'Lieutenant' is out saving the world and his wife doesn't know what to do with herself." She fidgeted, feeling phony and evasive. "I guess I should be getting back …"

"He'll be home by Friday, you know ..."

She could hear the cock-sure attitude in his words, and hated that this jet jockey knew something that the "Lieutenant's" own wife did not. "Since when are you privy to top secret information?"

She saw his eyes cast a dark glitter, quickly subdued, and knew she'd hit a nerve. John's winning the mission over an officer of higher rank had not set well with Stratton.

Gil caught himself and shrugged off her remark with a disarming air. "It's not top secret," he said. "Never was. Not anymore, anyway. That's just the scuttlebutt I heard going around on base." He watched her face closely for any softening of attitude, but Blythe held her expression unreadable.

"TDY is kind of a pain in the ass for pretty little wives like you though …"

She interrupted him coldly. "I wouldn't know." She said. "Evidently 'pretty little wives like me' are the last to know anything. He hasn't called, not even a TWX . Just a damn post card that got drowned in the rain and stomped into the ground. Mostly illegible." She sighed and spoke a bit softer, purposely baiting him. "I try not to be worried, but I guess I am, a little."

It was a lie, of course. She wasn't worried: she was pissed off. Good service wives, however, didn't say disrespectful things like that out loud, especially to her husband's buddies who loved to add grist to the gossip mill. With effort, she held her tongue, eyes flashing amber.

Stratton sidestepped as Blythe slid off the wall. She avoided his touch by standing up quickly, but his arm slithered around her shoulders anyway in an attempt to pull her closer. She caught a whiff of his breath, the vinegary tart odor of overindulgence, and realized that he was a little too drunk to heed her warning. He had taken her tone as a personal invitation.

Stratton was interpreting her body language all wrong, still stinging from the rebuff of

the pretty vixen he'd met in town and had not been able to seduce. His twitterpated brain told him that if he couldn't score the first time, he could always try again. No woman in her right mind denied Gilbert Stratton!

"Why don't you tell Uncle Gil all about it? Maybe I can help …"

Blythe shuddered. The sweat-whetted skin of his bare upper arm was making her feel queasy and vulnerable at the same time. This man seemed to have no sense of propriety. She ducked below him, twisting away from his grasp, and backed off a few feet. Now was not the time to be "demure".

She whirled to face him. "For God's sake, Gil, have you no sense of pride? No respect? Why is it always necessary for you to make a play for anything in a skirt? I came out here to be alone and think. You come roaring in like a herd of elephants, toss up chunks of mud and dirt and then stand there beating on a chain-link fence like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum. Why can't you get the hell away from me and let me alone?

I have nothing to say to 'Uncle Gil'. So go home and sleep it off. You're not cute."

Stratton's eyes widened in surprise. He had never heard the restrained Blythe House, wife of one of his best friends, use such a caustic tone of voice. She had always been polite and respectful, sweet humored and charming. The creature before him was a different breed of cat, and it aroused him. He backed off slowly, lifting both hands, palms out, in a silencing, placating gesture.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "I guess maybe I was a little out of line … but I was only trying to help." He turned up the wattage on the trademark smile. "Can we start over again? Come back and sit down. Please. Let's talk. I'll tell you my woes if you tell me yours. Okay?"

Blythe stared at him reproachfully, still plagued with doubt. At least he had the presence of mind to apologize. She sighed, shoulders slumping, beginning to feel the anger drain out of her and away. "I hate the way I'm feeling right now," she said softly. "It's not like me to be so angry."

He nodded, brightening. "I know. What is it that's got your knickers in such a knot?"

She frowned and glared up at him. Was he going to renew his condescending approach in hopes of getting on her vulnerable side?

He saw the dark flash of her eyes and backed off quickly, raising a wary palm between them again. "Sorry … I didn't mean anything by that. I know you're upset, but I don't want it to be at me. Is it something between you and Blackjack … uh … John?"

Blythe turned away, feeling tears threatening and hating herself for it. She faced the

wall again, her back to Stratton and his prying questions. She propped her hands on the uneven surface of the cement and leaned over them. Tears tracked down her cheeks, turning all her anger into sorrow and useless regret. "Oh Gil … we had this huge fight … and then he left without a word …"

He was beside her, hand on her shoulder, turning her gently toward him. "I'm sorry, Blythe. I didn't know. Is there anything I can do … ?"

_Oh God! 'Is there anything you can do?'_

Her heart was pounding. His large, warm hands on both her shoulders now, as he slowly turned her to face him.

What was it about this guy that turned women's knees to jelly and their hearts to cotton candy? She was finding that hers was no exception. Trembling, Blythe found that her face was buried in the soft hollow between his neck and shoulder and her arms locked around his rib cage.

_Oh God … oh God … oh God …_

"Jesus, Gil, I just hate this! If you're not the one in uniform … serving your country out of patriotism … this gypsy life stinks to high heaven. I hate the base, I hate the town, I hate John, I hate the Marine Corps and sometimes I hate myself.

"I'm so lonely most of the time I could cry my eyes out. It's like I'm not even married because he's never home. We fight and argue and I'm stuck in that ugly little house, and he takes off to go play in the clouds and I don't see him for days. Sometimes weeks. It's not fair. It pisses me off that you guys all know where he is and when he's coming home and I don't. I'm homesick and I want to get out of here and go back to Ohio where I belong."

"Does Blackjack know any of this?" Stratton's voice became softer; a little more sober. He dropped his head until his chin rested against her hair. "Have you ever told him how you feel?"

"God, no! He would yell and shout and carry on like a raving maniac and tell me I had no honor, no patriotism, no gratitude, and no pride. He can go on and on about it for hours."

Gil Stratton turned Blythe House all the way around until she faced him. In his eyes she saw something kind and understanding; a facet of this man she'd never seen … or even _wanted_ to see … before.

"That's _your_ fault, little lady," he said softly. "Let me tell you something: the guy you married is a confirmed hard ass … and I know you knew that when you married him. He's a quick-tempered loudmouth; a shouter and a fault finder who thinks his shit don't stink. He's got a fog-horn voice you can hear from the parade ground to the flight line. Most of the enlisted men who have to work around him hate his guts, and he hates them twice as much. But he gets away with it because he gets results."

Stratton shrugged and looked Blythe in the eye. "But there's something he's got that's good; something you saw beneath the surface a long time ago … something good that you fell in love with. Believe me, it's still there. I know it is, 'cause I've seen it too.

So when he yells at you and bitches about all the stuff you know isn't true, for Christ's

sake, woman … _yell back! _You don't have to put up with that shit. You never did. Okay?"

Gil let her have another million-watt grin which told her what he'd just said was only a suggestion: not the word of God.

Shocked into silence, Blythe stared up at him with wide eyes and an open mouth.

"He'll kill me!" She exclaimed.

"No he won't!" Stratton declared. "He'll be so damn flabbergasted he'll fart, faint and fall over." He was half chuckling, and when he ran his hands gently through her hair, she was not surprised. Then he put two fingers beneath her chin and tipped it up to his lips for one of the tenderest of kisses she'd ever experienced.

Blythe House kissed back.

oooooooo

Wordlessly they turned together and walked over to the fence where he had left the

little MG with its engine still running, its door still open wide, and its headlights still

on. Gallantly, he walked her around to the passenger side and opened the door for her

to get in. He walked around to the driver's side and got in also. He put the gear shift

in reverse and backed slowly away from the fence.

They sneaked off base, drove into town and rented a motel room; one at the back of the building.

They spent the night there; talking, having a few glasses of Scotch. They spoke of the Bishops, by now enjoying the night life of San Francisco. They discussed Lt. John "Blackjack" House, and a few of the gradual changes Blythe House might undertake in order to make her marriage and her life more bearable.

And they made love. Not romantic love. Sympathy love. 'Get-rid-of-all-the-goddamn-frustrations' love.

In the early morning, before daylight, Gil Stratton drove Blythe House back to the cement wall where he'd found her sitting near the flight line watching planes rumble in and out.

He turned the car around and drove back to the BOQ alone.

Blythe walked across to the ugly little house she shared with Blackjack-the-Terrible and let herself in. She did not turn on any lights.

There were plenty of lights shining across the floor from ongoing activity on the flight line.

She went to bed and slept like the innocent she was … never heard any of the air traffic buzzing in and out … never heard scattered groups of cadets counting cadence from the not-so-distant parade grounds …

… until almost nine o'clock the following morning.

And life, as it were, trundled unmindfully forward ...

oooooooooooo

230


	35. Chapter 35

ROAD RAGE

Chapter #35

"Surprise!"

Miramar

September 1958

Blythe House awoke early Thursday morning to a very unusual feeling coursing through her senses.

Peace.

If it indeed had anything to do with her venture into forbidden territory with Gil Stratton the night before, she wouldn't speculate. She certainly felt no guilt for it, and entertained no sense of recrimination. She'd had sexual relations with a man who was not her husband and she had allowed herself to enjoy it. They both did. Such a thing had never happened between the two

of them before and would, in all likelihood, never happen again. They had always treated each other with apprehensive awareness; a little jealous and a little curious. No more. The 'one-

night stand' had been a _good _thing.

Blythe took her marriage vows seriously. Her promise to 'love, honor and obey' John House was a sacred bond in her life. She would continue to uphold those vows and honor their union. She did not delude herself into believing the liaison with Gil Stratton meant anything more than a unique way of easing external tensions. She and Stratton had both been frustrated by incidents in their lives that were beyond their individual abilities to control. They'd exchanged frustrations and bodily fluids and followed that up with a lively discussion that had turned highly therapeutic for both. That was that. They'd parted as friends who had learned a little more about each other and gained new respect as a result. Both came away knowing the contact was a one-time thing and would never be mentioned again. Sometimes the most beneficial life lessons were learned through highly unusual … but practical … methods.

Peace!

There was a lot to be said for it.

oooooooo

When the telegram arrived, Blythe had just finished with the last piano pupil of the day; one of the younger boys from up the street. She watched as he climbed on his bicycle and hammered it out of there like the devil was after him. She smiled as she watched his figure disappear quickly in the distance. It was a teachers' in-service day today and tomorrow, and he couldn't wait to join his pals, already waiting for him at the sand lot baseball field on the opposite side of the base.

Behind her, across the back lot and yonder on the flight line, a noisy C-124 prop-jet cargo

plane lumbered down the runway and lifted slowly, like a pregnant albatross, into the sky.

The Doppler Effect thundered after it for another thirty seconds before it faded into the

distance.

She was about to turn and go back inside, but another bicycle skidded to a halt in the street in front of the house. This was an older kid, the son of a Major who had recently moved his family from Hickam Field. The boy was named Willy, Connie had told her. He was wearing an old fedora jammed onto his head with a chunk of cardboard stuck in the brim: _WESTERN UNION._

"Telegram, lady," announced the kid breathlessly as he pushed the bike over the curb and into the tiny yard. "You're Mrs. House, right?"

She nodded. "That's me. And you're Willy. Right?"

He grinned back with an expanse of large white teeth. "Yep …" He extended his hand containing the distinctive yellow envelope with block letters pasted across the front. "Sign

on the dotted line, please." He thrust a clip board forward with his other hand.

Blythe took it from him and signed where he indicated. She extracted the envelope from his fingers as he watched.

She handed him a dollar from her apron pocket while Willy tipped the fedora and grabbed the handlebars of his bike. "Thanks. Good day to ya, ma'am," he shouted over his shoulder as he rode away, hiking the bike's tires roughly back over the curb and into the street.

Blythe ripped open the flimsy envelope and stared at its contents.

"BE HOME FRI AM/ STOP/ PACK FOR TRIP TO SF /STOP /SORRY I GOT MAD/ STOP/ WILL MAKE UP FOR IT IMMEDIATELY UPON ARRIVAL/STOP/LOVE JOHN HOUSE/ STOP."

He was apologizing? She stared at the formality of the last line and almost giggled.

"_Love, John House"._

She would have bet a hundred dollars that Gilbert Stratton had wasted no time contacting the aforementioned John House, probably informing him that he had spoken to his polite little Marine Corps wifey, who had bitched to him and was _really really pissed at his stupid-assed jarhead actions!_

_You were right, Gil. There is a very nice part of my husband hidden way down inside, but the Marine Corps keeps it buried so deeply that I can barely reach it anymore …_

Blythe jammed the telegram into the pocket of her apron and walked slowly back inside the house. Her mood took a turn for the better immediately as she hummed a sprightly tune inside her mind. His method of "making up" might be very interesting indeed …

Funny what a little piece of paper could sometimes do for one's disposition.

oooooooo

Friday morning at ten o'clock Blythe heard the big pickup grind to a stop in front of the house and shut off. She looked out the front window and saw her husband, pressed and spit-shined, with brand new silverbars gleaming on the collar of his summer-tan uniform shirt. She watched him grab his shoulder bag, slam the truck's door and then stride up the sidewalk. Quickly she removed her apron, fluffed her hair and added a smile of welcome. She was, of course, packed and ready for their trip to San Francisco.

Blythe House's salute was almost as smart as a new recruit's as she came to a brace of attention and drew herself up stiffly in front of him. "Welcome home sir!" Then she giggled and threw her arms around his neck. "Congratulations, Captain House!"

John ditched his cunt cap on the couch and waggled his eyebrows in seductive fashion. He reached a strong, hairy, heavily tattooed right arm about her waist and twirled her so hard that her feet left the floor. "Let's go to the boudoir my big-assed Marine," he said, "and maybe I'll let you congratulate me again in a way that I'll always remember! Then tomorrow morning we leave for a romantic weekend in the big city! I regret that I have a very large apology to make."

He got no argument from her.

oooooooo

They caught the pre-dawn tour bus from the base and found themselves in the middle of San Francisco in broad daylight. The old city was a bustling madhouse and a delight to behold, and they set out to explore as much of it as possible on their two-day whirlwind tour.

Fisherman's Wharf, by dinnertime, was crowded, noisy, smelly and colorful. The two of them explored its delights like newlyweds on a grand adventure. They walked the planks with a sense of wonder they had not experienced since the early days of their marriage, and though John did not express it in words, his attentativeness to Blythe that day was as eloquent an apology as he could possibly manage. Toward evening they stood together looking out into the bay, watching the sun sink slowly behind Alcatraz Island until the wind grew gusty and daylight began to desert the sky.

They were escorted to a secluded table by a window on the restaurant side and ate crab legs and clams-on-the-half-shell on the lee side of the huge building. After dinner they lingered over tall drinks, even after colorful evening lights began to come on and twinkle brightly through the darkness.

They returned to their hotel room long after midnight, still a little giddy with excitement. They showered together and had nightcaps sent up to the room. They turned their lovemaking into

an endurance contest, lost in the spell of candlelight and soft music on the radio. They enjoyed quiet laughter and gentle touches under silk sheets that smelled like lilacs. They were still wrapped in each other's arms when daylight spread across the window sill and John broke the magic spell by announcing: "Up and at 'em, Big-Assed Marine! Semper Fi!" They had their breakfast in bed and Blythe was delighted to find a single red rose in a slender vase on the breakfast tray with a tiny card that read" I love you".

"I love you too," she whispered with a kiss.

Their last day in town found them loaded with gaily wrapped packages from some of the tiny shops in the Embarcadero Center. John had no choice but to rent a bright red Henry J to return their purchases to the hotel in time for lunch. In the afternoon they took the little car out to do some exploring and ended up traversing the very interesting and twisty Lombard Street, laughing with delight as their bottoms slid from side to side across the narrow expanse of the front seat.

Evening found them exhausted and a lot poorer. They'd returned the Henry J to the gas station's small rental lot and caught a taxi, whose driver shook his head impatiently when they loaded another pile of packages into his cab's trunk. It was nearly dark when John and Blythe caught up with the tour bus to return them to the base at Miramar. They didn't talk much on the trip back, but sat quietly in their seats and fell asleep leaning against one another, swaying to the rhythm of the bus's gentle motion.

oooooooo

By the middle of November, Blythe House began to take on a certain glow. She became

serene and quiet and hummed to herself and seemed to glide about their little house as she did the chores and cooked their meals. John had not requested extra TDY as he had in the past, and instead attended to some of the neglected work around the base. One night he came home to find his wife in a pretty house dress, a bouquet on the dinner table and his favorite meal of roast beef simmering in the pot and making the house smell like a gourmet restaurant. He raised his eyebrows.

"I'm pregnant." Blythe told him shyly. "We're going to have a baby."

John's face drained of all color and his jaw dropped. He turned around, walked out the back door and headed in the general direction of the flight line ...

oooooooooooo

4


	36. Chapter 36

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #36

"In the Chill, Still of the Night"

Lexington:

Thursday,

January 21, 2009

He stood at the large window in the living room, the one that looked out onto the street. He wasn't sure how he'd got there, only that one moment he was in bed and the next moment he

wasn't. Wilson was still sleeping, probably, but somehow he'd escaped from their shared room to be alone; to garner his errant thoughts and pick through some of the strange developments his disorganized mind had been processing lately. There was light traffic moving outside, even this early, but it was a quiet neighborhood and the sounds he could hear seemed muted and fragile.

Dark clouds spread thinly over the horizon, tumbling like cotton batting inside a glass bottle. He wondered if it might be getting ready to snow. The rest of the world did not even exist out there any further than the front yard and part of the street and a little of the sky …

He stood on tiptoe, stretching his shoulders upward and straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of treetops or rooftops protruding above the mist. The world ended abruptly and he was boxed into an eerie gray realm with no means of escape. He straightened to full height and began to turn back in the direction from which he had come. As he did so, his balance took a swift nose dive and he became suddenly dizzy and disoriented. He reached out and gripped the windowsill with both hands in an effort to keep from passing out and spiraling down onto his scantily clad ass. Reality was narrowing, closing in.

_Whoa!_

His head spun dangerously, like he was tripping on some kind of hallucinogen. Or maybe he was just drunk. He held tight to the windowsill and gazed out toward the street. The world listed to the right and he shook his head and spread his legs wider to bring himself out of it. He was becoming cold, beginning to shiver, for he had on only a raggedy tee shirt and boxer briefs. He had no idea what time it was. The dizziness persisted and his perception narrowed, quickly diminishing into a tight, electromagnetic flux that enclosed him tighter and tighter. It was like standing inside a constricting nimbus of neon lights and carnival music. Surreal. Nausea roiled deep in his stomach and vertigo pressed an icy hand against the side of his head, causing him to list even further to the right. He felt as though something was trying to turn him upside down. His gorge rose quickly …

In a moment of panic, he sought to get away, but he was glued to the spot and his horrified gaze locked on the tiny universe out front. He was freezing and the sidewalk was growing brighter.

A flash of light … like heat lightning … the honey haired woman he'd seen in Lexington stood motionless as a statue, watching him; all wind-blown hair and crystal blue eyes. In that one nanosecond of eternity she claimed existence, frozen in time in front of his mother's house. She

turned her head fractionally upward, purposely looking him in the eye. She smiled with such an overwhelming show of familiar insolence that in that instant, he understood.

He jolted to his senses, pivoted and sprinted down the hallway for the bathroom, knowing he wouldn't make it …

… _wouldn't make it …_

oooooooo

Gregory House startled awake, trembling like a twig full of leaves in the wind, all senses in play. His body was rigid with tension and pain and cold and a growing nausea. The dream had been like a pause in time, and the afterimage of the pretty blonde woman lingered in his skull like a burn mark on his retinas. He'd only been asleep a few hours.

The woman shouldn't have been there. She was dead.

Amber Volakis.

Surely he was going crazy; losing his mind. He was having hallucinations of Wilson's dead girlfriend as well as visitations from his dead father in the persona of the family dog. He wondered who else might visit him from somewhere beyond the mortal plane. His long-dead grandparents? Some patient who had lost the battle for life under his care? His fucking dead leg? He wished that damned leftover chicken was up somebody's ass.

He had always known that his drug intake could progress to the point of death if he didn't get it under control. There were a few times he'd awakened with a crawly feeling inside, and memories of recurring nightmares that scared hell out of him. His life existed on pills, booze and a growing amount of injected painkillers. Often he had little appetite; too nauseous to eat a nutritious meal. He'd lost weight because nothing looked good but junk food. He ignored the rest. His clothing drooped on him like the tee shirt that somebody hung on a skeleton in one of the anatomy classrooms.

He was his own dichotomy; his own paradox. He was a man who lived to cure obscure diseases, figure out puzzles of the body that mystified other doctors. Why could he not figure out his own puzzle? Sometimes, in dark moments of the soul, it brought him to tears.

James Wilson, however, did not ignore it. Wilson gave him hell about it. Wilson brought him food from the cafeteria that he turned away from after one or two bites. He held his friend off most of the time by stealing snatches of Wilson's lunch off his plate.

His leg pain had worsened lately, as he knew it would. Breakthrough pain had not been a sign of damaged nerve endings regenerating as Wilson had thought at first. It was instead the signs of his disability progressing; forcing him to resort to more and more drastic measures to find relief. Measures that he held ever closer to his chest. If he did not find a way to break the chain of addiction and settle upon a less dangerous method of pain control, he would end up in jail, the looney bin, or dead. Maybe all three in that order. It was only a matter of time.

His hallucinations were gaining. Someday before long he supposed, Amber Volakis would reach out and tap him on the shoulder. He would turn around and she would taunt him as unmercifully as he had once taunted her. Amber would have no qualms about foretelling his death. And then she would rub his nose in it.

_You can't always get what you want._

What DID he want? Certainly not this!

His stomach heaved, threatening to disgorge its contents in a not-very polite manner, and the harsh chemical taste rose quickly into his throat. He stumbled pitifully to his feet and step-hobbled to the bathroom without benefit of the cane. He bit down on his lip to keep from mewling out loud, and crumbled to the floor, much like the wispy cape of Obi Wan Kenobi. Stomach and throat muscles clenching, he puked noisily into the pocket of water at the bottom

of the toilet bowl. Nothing but half-digested chicken came up. He spat out the blobs and wilted further where he sat, waiting to determine whether there would be more; surprised how severely his body was trembling.

After a dozen more painful spasms from his midsection, the sensation of nausea finally began to abate, leaving him gasping for breath. He lolled in a semi-stupor, drooling stringy saliva, body wet with frigid, salty perspiration. He rested his forehead against the lip of the commode seat and shook uncontrollably.

After an infinite passage of time he struggled to gather enough spirit to propel himself to his feet. He made it in torturous increments, inches at a time, and stood leaning weakly into the wall. His arms felt like they were made of foam rubber. It was very difficult to place weight on his right foot. His toes buckled painfully underneath it as his bad leg lost more of its strength. He hadn't the ability to lift his foot off the floor. Dizzy and swaying, he relieved himself and flushed. He pushed open the bathroom door and paused breathlessly to summon courage to hobble back to the bed.

Wilson was awake and had turned up the light on the table between their beds. House's friend, by some miracle of restraint, said nothing; just sat still waiting and watching expectantly. He had obviously heard the commotion in the bathroom and was ready to do whatever he could to help.

Open-mouthed and panting, House collapsed on his bed and clamped his hands in a circle around his emaciated thigh. He glared daggers across the room. "Need my Vicodin," he gasped. "In the kitchen on the counter. Could you … ?"

Wilson nodded silently. He rose at once and pushed the blankets aside. Barefoot, he padded

out of the bedroom, debating the sanity of giving House hydrocodone on an upset stomach.

But House knew the dangers as well as he did. When he returned, he had two pills in one hand and half a glass of ginger ale and a warm, damp wash cloth in the other. He offered pills and soda to House, who accepted with caution, although the hand with the soda shook wildly.

"Let me hold the glass," Wilson requested in a quiet, no-nonsense manner, and sat down close to House's side. With his free hand he wiped his friend's arms, face and neck with the cloth.

House nodded briefly. He took the pills with a swallow of soda and then pushed Wilson's hand away. "Don't wanna upchuck on you. I'm still unstable." He hunched over and returned both hands immediately to his leg.

"That's very kind of you." Wilson's voice remained soft, purposely teasing with a tone of gentle mockery. His soft brown eyes held a concerned glint as House's suspicious dark glare seemed to penetrate all the way to the guarded depths.

"I'm fine."

"I can see that."

"I'm freezing."

"I can see that too. What happened … bad dream, or what?"

"Yeah, s-sort of." House nearly choked on the irony of the question.

"Care to fill me in? Might calm you down a little." Wilson placed a warm hand on House's shoulder and pushed gently sideways. "Lie down and cover up until you stop shaking like a

dog shitting bones. You really shouldn't go screwing around at night in your underwear …"

There was a dark glitter of rebellion in the hooded eyes for a moment, but then House allowed Wilson to ease him back onto the pillow and pull up the scattered bed clothing. "I wasn't

s-screwing! Christ, Wilson, you remind me of my grandmother …"

"Knock it off, moron," Wilson retorted through a smile. "I know. Talk to me!"

"Nothing to say," House grumbled. "You got it right … I had a crappy dream, that's all."

"Looked like you saw a ghost …"

House's rat-a-tat of sardonic laughter caught Wilson by surprise. "What?" He demanded. "Did

I strike a nerve? Were you dreaming about your dad?"

House cringed and tried to draw himself into a ball. This conversation would go badly, no matter what he said to put Wilson off. He could not allow himself to bring up Amber's name and remind his friend of recent hurtful memories. Their friendship was slowly healing, but the careless mention of Amber's name could set off a land mine. He clenched his eyes tightly as paroxysms of quivering jitters again shook his body. He was so cold that it felt as though he was trapped inside a snow bank.

"Y-yeah …"

House burrowed deeper under the covers and tried to fight through another bout of shivers.

He wrapped both arms around his body to make himself as small as possible. The feeling only grew worse. He could not keep his teeth from chattering.

_This s-sucks …_

He was suddenly aware of Wilson's weight moving off the bed, and he was at once disappointed, wishing his friend would come back. It would be comforting to have a warm body at his side while his own was trying to vibrate all his bones out through his skin.

Wilson was probably getting weary of him having one damn crisis after another, he thought, and was going back to his own side of the room. House decided he was nothing but a royal pain in the ass to Wilson. He heaved a shuddering sigh and reached around to pull the blankets tighter around his shoulders. His movements were shaking the entire bed. There were subtle sounds coming from the other side of the room, but between the dampening effect of his woolly cocoon and the chattering of his teeth, House couldn't hear anything clearly.

Then a large pile of heavy blankets landed on top of him with a thump. They were being hastily pulled up and over his body until he could feel their weight cross his rib cage and his hips and his shoulders, and it translated as welcome warmth.

_What the?_

Wilson had pulled the covers from his own bed and stacked them on top of House's freezing frame, and was in the process of tucking them in.

House experienced an instant of overwhelming desire to annoy Wilson further by comparing him once more to his grandmother, but he simply did not have the strength or the heart to attempt it. Instead, he grunted: "Th-thanks, Wilson …"

At that moment a corner of the covers lifted and a chilly draft swept away some of the delicious warmth. House almost whined about it. Skitters of chilly air tickled his feet, his legs and his unprotected ass. He curled himself into an even tighter ball in a halfhearted effort to burrow down as deeply as possible.

Then … the unexpected addition of Wilson's full body weight pressing down on the mattress and moving closer beneath the sheets, startled the crap out of House.

_What the hell?_

Spooning his body tightly in the same configuration as House's, Wilson slid closer until they were fully touching from shoulders to toes. The pile of covers was quickly drawn upward again, tucked beneath their feet, across their bodies and partly over their heads as Wilson cocooned his lithe, slender form as tightly as possible against House's back.

Gregory House was too astonished, astounded, dumbfounded and flabbergasted to give much more thought to how freezing cold he had been … up until that moment.

There was _another man_ pressing himself tightly against his behind! There was _another man's pecker_ nestled gently into the shallow ditch of House's ass-crack! Wilson's chest was pushed intimately against House's bony spinal column. And now there was a soft male hand stealing cautiously along the length of House's upper arm and coming to rest, with warmth like a large

overheated rock, smack against House's right shoulder.

_Jesus H. Christ!_

House's body stiffened in alarm. He had never experienced anything like this before. His rigid upbringing would have forbidden it … as surely as smoking cigarettes in the basement, or being frightened of a clown, or screaming _fuck you _to one's father.

For two minutes they lay entwined with one another, House, stiff as a board in mortified silence. Wilson was just as silent, but he was relaxed and content and smiling to himself with the fact that he was able to do for Gregory House what needed desperately to be done at that precise moment.

Gradually they warmed to the situation … and warmed their bones together. House heaved a deep shuddering sigh and slowly relaxed some of the deeply ingrained fear of men touching.

One more chunk of Marine bullshit dismissed like smoke on the wind.

Actually, his frigid body was warming up quite nicely.

Wilson's warm breath produced a welcome sense of contentment in House's right ear as Wilson smiled into the darkness and finally spoke:

"D-don't mention it …"

oooooooooooo

6


	37. Chapter 37

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #37

"Little Blue Stranger"

Miramar, California

October, 1957

June 1959

Blythe looked after her husband with knitted brow and a twinge of alarm. The feeling didn't last long. She could see his hunched back and his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his off-duty khakis; something he almost never did because Marine training did not approve of it. He was locked into a funk of deep thought. Hands-in-pockets was always a sure sign.

She sighed, turning back to the kitchen, and did not follow after him, although the temptation was great. She had just zapped him with a bombshell the size of Montana and he needed time to process it. John House was a man who usually kept his deepest emotions tightly in check. She knew he was walking away to keep her from seeing the embarrassing wetness in his eyes and on his face. When he returned to the house he would be smiling and he would throw his arms around her and twirl her about with a pride he could display for the world.

He was going to be a Daddy.

oooooooo

Blackjack walked away from his wife and away from the base housing unit they'd shared for nearly two years. Slowly he shuffled toward the fence that surrounded the flight line. His eyes were clenched tightly shut, combatting tears that originated not from happiness, but from a sense of disappointment, emptiness, and a mounting anger that darkened his soul. His wife had been unfaithful, and he had no reservations about why or with whom.

John House hadn't given one single thought to any of the women he'd bedded over the years; certainly not the two he'd been with on Okinawa only the week before. He'd screwed a shitload

of women, certainly, but he was not in love with any of them. He kept that only for Blythe.

_He_ was the one who was the first betrayer; _he, _the one who'd done more one-night stands than Bob Hope. The knot that was growing in his stomach told him that if he blamed Blythe for infidelity, he must blame himself at least ten-fold. But John saw only one glaring fact: his wife had betrayed _him_, and with Gil Stratton, that son of a bitch. A wife was not supposed to lie down with anyone but her husband. A man's _needs_, he thought in martyred self-defense, were much greater than a woman's. _Needs_ that needed to be fulfilled. Regularly. Men were't like women, who could go for months without bedding a man for the purpose of … well …

Sometimes women were unfathomable. They didn't want just _any _man. They wanted to be _loved. _They wanted the _right _man; a man who could be kind and gentle and talk sweet talk. They wanted _one_ man who could fulfill her countless needs with humor and tolerance and respect. On the other hand, a man would bed as many women as possible, as often as possible, in order to satisfy his deepest, most constant, _one_ constant itch. Women didn't get it. They would never get it.

Now his wife was pregnant, for God's sake, with Gilbert Stratton's bastard brat. If John had Stratton in front of him right now he'd tear that prick a new asshole!

John walked up to the chain link fence that cordoned off the flight line and closed both fists around two of the cross links. He shook them against the poles violently, making them clank against their restraints like cow bells in a pasture. He made his hands into fists and pummeled them until his fingers were bloodied and hurt like hell.

When his senses finally returned, he stood with his head hanging between both arms, hands still grasping the fence, wishing he were anywhere but here. He wanted to go back to the house, take hold of Blythe and beat her senseless for making a fool of him. He would never live it down. He finally turned away and stumbled in the other direction, leaning over the wall that separated the flight line from the row of small trim houses where he and Blythe lived.

Had he known that his actions exactly mirrored those of Gil Stratton a little over a month before, he might have felt renewed anger. Instead, he leaned across the breadth of the wall and wiped his scraped hands on the grass. After a time the bleeding stopped and his rational mind struggled to sort things out.

He sat down on the rough cement and turned his face upward to that bright blue space where his imagination lived and where his spirit had found a home. As he gazed at the sky and the clouds, he came to the sudden realization that … _holy hell!_ … no one could possibly guess that this tiny bastard child was not his and Blythe's. Not even Blythe … or Stratton himself. John had never told anyone, ever, that he was damaged goods and all his bullets were void of live ammunition.

A sympathy fuck was a sympathy fuck. It was finished, and he certainly deserved to have to pay for the pain that had caused it.

Would he have had the balls to ask for a divorce from Blythe because she was pregnant with a child that wasn't her husband's? John had deceived her hundreds of times, and she, up until now, never. She'd mentioned having a baby awhile back, and he'd told her to shut the hell up about it. He'd never even hinted that she could have got just as pregnant from a cigar store Indian as she could from him.

Should he tell her about his impotence? If he did that … and if he knew Blythe … she would never recover from her own humiliation of knowing her husband was not the kid's father. He could not do that to her. Sometimes not talking was a hell of a lot better than talking …

It was over and done. Period!

Was he nuts? He thought that at that particular moment he might be. He was still not thinking straight, and he needed to calm down further before he did something totally stupid. He had never hit Blythe in anger, although there were times when he'd been tempted. John began to take deep breaths … a calming exercise left over from the days of Gunnery Sergeant Cletis A. Hammond: in through his nose and out through his mouth.

Gradually his heart stopped hammering and his hand stopped shaking enough that he could reach into his breast pocket for a cigarette without smacking himself in the face. He lit up and spent an incredibly long five minutes inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs and letting it billow it out through his nose.

In his own defense, he had at least sent his wife that silly telegram from Okinawa (because Gil Stratton had told him to), with a half-assed apology and a proposal for both of them to go on a weekend tryst in San Francisco when he got home. Gil Stratton had been one of his best friends from day one, after all, and when he'd deplaned from Okinawa, Gil drew him aside before he had a chance to get away.

Blythe was royally pissed off, Gil warned. He'd run into her near the flight line one night, and they'd talked. She finally admitted she was sick and tired of being told what to do, what to say, what to think … and being ordered to shut up nearly every time she opened her mouth. She said she wished she were back in Ohio where she belonged. She hated the house, the base, the noise, the people, except Connie Bishop ... hated the Marines, her husband … even herself.

Gil said it had taken him hours to talk her down.

_Yeah … BUDDY … I just BET it did!_

Gil Stratton, of course, ended his narrative _before_ admitting he'd laid down with his buddy's wife. He did say that he told her she didn't have to be a doormat to a damned jarhead for the rest of her life … and if Blackjack yelled at her like that again, to stand up, look him in the eye and tell him to shut _himself_ up, for fuck's sake!

Blackjack lowered his chin to his chest in recollection and a smidgeon of humor mixed with ignominy. He thought back to his homecoming and smiled. Blythe had been flattering almost

to the point of fawning over him when he walked through the front door decked out in his shiny new Captain's bars. She thought he'd got her pregnant in San Francisco. He'd have bet on it.

They shared a delicious supper … all his favorites. Roast beef, fried potatoes, corn, home-made bread and apple pie. He told her how good the food was and he told her about the spirited new airplane he'd been testing, and about the cat-scratch island of Okinawa with its shining sea and its tiny base and its boring officers' club.

In turn, Blythe began to relay news of _her _exciting two weeks: what she and Connie Bishop did, what the twins did, how she wanted to make curtains for the kitchen like Connie had made for hers. She noted the progress of her piano pupils, one by one, and the cute kid that delivered his funny telegram to their doorstep. She complained about the weather; all the boring stuff that was playing on TV, and commercials that seemed to run every five minutes; she told him about the new puppy down the street that kept running away with all the neighborhood kids chasing after him. Yackity, yackity yack …

Blackjack listened patiently until it seemed his eardrums began to vibrate like a hi-fi with the gain turned all the way up. He tried to tune some of it out, but the twitter was at full volume and the woofer was like thunder across the valley.

Finally he reverted to his old ways:

"Blythe! Willya please shut the fuck up?"

There was a long pause while she looked at him with a very stern face.

"_You_ shut the fuck up … _Captain _House!"

Blackjack almost fell off his chair …

That's when she told him about his impending status as a father.

oooooooo

Before he left the wall beside the flight line, John House had finally made up his mind. He decided it might be interesting to have a family of his own … with himself at the head of it. A goofy little kid running around, getting into all kinds of shit could be fun. He decided he'd like to take a crack at being a dad, and he decided he really did love his wife and he'd never cheat on her again.

He needed Blythe at his side. He loved her, dammit. He did!

He finally walked back to the house with a smile stamped across his face, for better or worse. He held out his arms and made all kinds of nice with his wife. He took her into his embrace, hugged her and twirled her around just like he'd done on their first date. He told her how great

it was that they were going to be blessed with the miracle of new life.

John resolved that he would see this through like a _husband_. He would accept it with honor, humor, and (oh god) humility. He would be a proper father to the little sumbitch, even if it killed him. And he would be the happiest horse in the race.

The child's paternity would never be mentioned … not to Blythe, not to Stratton, not to another living soul. As far as those two were concerned, their one-night stand had been just that. Lost to history.

John House left the flight line perimeter and went back to his house and his wife and his future.

He would be a lousy father, most of the time, but he didn't know that yet …

oooooooo

Blythe House was one of those fortunate women who sailed through her pregnancy like a hump-back whale through the ocean. After the initial bout of morning sickness she settled down and enjoyed her confinement. "Confinement": that's what her mother and grandmother had called it, and so she called it that also.

John didn't see any connection. _Confinement? Confinement to what?_

When he heard her in the bathroom throwing up, he would step out the back door and listen to the flight line where the roar of planes and heavy machinery on the tarmac would completely drown out her retching. He could never admit that the sound of upchucking always made him nauseous too. Blythe would have laughed herself silly at the thought, and teased him about it unmercifully.

She did not laugh herself silly, and she did not tease him at all … but she knew.

John finally summoned the courage to lay a timid hand on her ballooning belly when her time reached six months. He'd been too squeamish, too inhibited, too 'manly' to attempt it before. The first time he felt the baby move, and then kick and hump up furiously beneath his hand, his huge blue eyes widened to saucers and he gasped with something almost like pride.

A kid was a kid, he finally admitted to himself, and it didn't matter a crap who-the-hell its real father was. This little bucking bronco was his!

oooooooo

After the first week of June, Blythe knew her time was almost upon her. Her belly was ponderous and her nipples were leaking colostrum to the point that there were wet patches on the fronts of all her maternity tops. She was achy in her lower back. Cramps bothered her and sometimes woke her up at night.

Sometimes it woke John too.

John watched and waited with wide, uncomprehending eyes. He jumped every time she moved, and he frowned as he observed her clunking about in that half-duck-waddle all pregnant women assimilated in their last trimester. Sometimes both of them moved around like zombies in the daytime from a lack of normal sleep. Finally he called the base and requested a two-week leave.

"My wife's about to drop her load," he hooted to the Second Lieutenant on duty.

"Better hook a parachute to it, Blackie!" The Lieutenant hooted back.

He drove her to the base hospital that same night. Her water broke at 11:00 p.m.

Nurses and orderlies thrust him aside with amused expressions on their faces. Nobody needed a worried daddy-to-be bumbling around. They hustled her onto a gurney and sped off down the corridor like they'd been shot from a cannon.

John stood looking after them with his hands limp at his sides and his mouth hanging open.

A kind lady in a wrinkled scrub uniform finally herded him, with a gentle push, into the maternity waiting room and left him there.

… where he paced a rut in the floor for a little over four hours.

It was 5:30 a.m. on June 11, 1959 when Baby House arrived in the world with a face that was bright red with rage. Both tiny fists were clenched like a bare-knuckle pugilist, both arms flailing in the air, and the kid was wailing like a Banshee.

Ugly as a mud fence!

Blackjack saw the little blue stranger … last name "House" … through the O. R. window in all his cord-clamped, spikey-haired, blotchy-assed nakedness.

_God-damn … it's really a boy!_

And his eyes widened in delight.

The bowlegged little shit had balls the size of pontoons!

oooooooooooo

6


	38. Chapter 38

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #38

"Hair of the Dog"

Thursday,

January 22nd, 2009:

Daytime

House's first daylight image was a blurry bouquet of pale fingers hanging so close to his face that his still-sleepy eyes could not focus. Wilson's slender digits with meticulously manicured nails were almost as familiar a sight to Gregory House as his own. Except not this damn close!

Wilson was still or … _again _… spooned against his back and still asleep, judging by the sound

of his low, even breathing. The strange part was the fact that, in order for him to be able to see those fingers nesting against his nose, meant that his head had to be right atop the curve of Wilson's shoulder. House directed his eyes to the left and down. His cheek lay against the smooth, pale skin of Wilson's upper arm.

How Wilson managed to stay comfortable in such a position, House could not fathom, but it seemed that he was. When Wilson went to the trouble to cart his blankets across the room

and heap them on House's bed so House could get warm, and then slid in against him, the

older man's embarrassment had known no bounds.

Many awkward moments passed while House lay rigid as a hickory log, endeavoring to acclimate himself to sharing sleeping accommodations with another male body. Wilson had

just snuggled up and made himself comfortable. House couldn't remember exactly when he'd finally calmed down enough to fall asleep, but he had. Now, in the early light of morning, he was beginning to experience a couple of unfamiliar responses: a strange sense of fondness and appreciation for someone he'd never before offered anything but grief.

Beside him, Wilson's breathing sped up and shifted gears. He was slowly coming awake. Shortly, the moppy head lifted off its pillow as far as he could manage with House's weight

still pinning him down. He turned his face to the right as far as possible. Two blue eyes bored straight into his like icy daggers. Both men were at a loss; frozen in place and gravely intent as each waited for the other to make the first move.

Wilson took a deep breath and puffed a warm stream of air across the side of House's face. House felt the edges of his hairline lift straight up as a gust of tropical moisture settled deep

into his ear. He lifted himself onto his elbow and glared harder into the twinkling eyes that drilled impatiently back at his own.

"House …" Wilson's voice was dry and crackly. "Could you please, for Chrissake, get off my arm? It's not only asleep … it's dead as a possum pancake."

House grinned a Cheshire cat grin and shifted his position enough to allow Wilson to roll over and pull his arm from beneath his head. "Happy to," he chortled. "Hell, even possum pancakes smell better than you, but I thought you'd at least try to seduce me before you finally turned me loose …"

Wilson grunted through his nose and threw back a sarcastic retort: "Eww! Seduce you? I'd rather seduce the possum." He was resting on his back now, staring across at House and rubbing his left arm vigorously with his right hand. House watched the procession of pained grimaces march across Wilson's face as he rubbed at the sensation of pins and needles and assuring himself that circulation was slowly returning to normal.

"You didn't have to do that last night, you know," House finally said. "I'd've been fine …"

Wilson wrinkled his nose and lowered his arms to his sides. "Yeah, I know. You're always fine, but somebody had to hold you down or you'd have vibrated both of us out of bed, you were shaking that bad."

"I was cold."

"You were dreaming, dammit. Like the boogey man was after you. And banging around in the bathroom before that. You had all your covers thrown off. You had leg problems too, and pain isn't very resistant to a sensation of cold."

"I told you … I'm fine."

"House, sometimes when I try to talk to you, I feel like we're recording an endless loop on audio tape. It's the same line of bull over and over again."

House sighed. He was well aware he sometimes sounded like a broken record. "Yeah … well this morning I'm warm, I'm relaxed and my leg isn't screaming for drugs. Whaddaya think of them apples?"

Wilson said nothing for a few moments. He hefted his spectacular eyebrows and stared. Then he said with a grunt of disbelief: "You couldn't put weight on it last night."

"I can now."

"And you know this because … ?"

"Because the breakthrough pain is over. It's happened before, often enough that I know. Trust me, Wilson … and listen carefully because I'll only say this once." House's gaze lowered and leapt to the right; any excuse not to maintain eye contact while speaking from the heart. "You helped me a lot last night, and I need to say thanks for that because I appreciate it."

Wilson's mouth dropped open, but before he could speak, House growled at him again: "Don't say a word! It's all good."

Wilson was too stunned to reply right away to such an assertion from the lips of Gregory House. All he could do at the moment was stare impotently as a surge of emotion washed through his body. He was still open-mouthed and tongue tied. He searched his friend's face for signs of deception or trickery, but encountered only the still-downcast eyes.

Then he smiled and nodded once, House-fashion. He said not a word.

oooooooo

Blythe always seemed to beat them to the coffee pot by mere seconds; and she had done so

again this morning. When both men entered the kitchen, freshly showered and shorn, she was spooning coffee out of the can and into the coffee maker. "Good morning," she said brightly. "Did you sleep well?"

House cleared his throat loudly, thinking of all the answers he _could _have given her that would knock her off her feet. Wilson saved him the trouble of making such a profound decision. "I can't speak for Gregg, but I slept like a rock. Thanks. And you?" Perhaps if he got her talking, her loud-mouth son would keep his lecherous lip buttoned.

"I don't think I moved from one spot all night long," she said with a smile. "You both look bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning. James, you're very handsome in tans and browns. And Gregory … you seem to be moving a little better this morning. I take it your sore hip is healing nicely."

"The hip is fine, Mom. But don't I look handsome too?" There was a teasing sparkle behind

the deliberate pout that he didn't try to hide.

Blythe almost took the bait. She paused for only a moment, then gathered her resources and answered his question in a manner that he hadn't quite expected.

"Yes, darling, of course you do. You _always_ look handsome. Except for the shirts you don't iron, the sports jackets you don't send to the cleaners, and that briar patch you never shave off your sweet face. Actually, you remind me of Chewbacca, that hairy creature who flies the Millennium Falcon … isn't that his name? All you need is an ammo belt and a blaster."

With both hands clasped over the bottom half of his face, Wilson was the first to break the wall of silence that followed House's defeat at the hands of his mother. The sound that issued forth was very much like a car tire that had been run through with a nail.

"Sh-shshshhs-ssssssssss …."

Somehow, House summoned the grace to look embarrassed.

oooooooo

They finished breakfast by 9:00 a.m. Wilson helped Blythe load the dishwasher while Gregg noodled around on the piano. Blythe fed Baxter and gave him water.

Actually, Wilson knew he needed to get out of the way of the mother-and-son discussion he knew was looming. It was already Thursday, and they must get ready to leave for Princeton sometime Saturday. House and his mom had to talk about the hurtful things that had disrupted their lives for so long, and attempt to resolve them. If not, mother and son stood the chance of remaining reserved strangers for the rest of their lives.

Blythe had probably done some deep thinking over the years about who her son's father really was. Either that, or she was truly naïve, and had not. House must tread a narrow path there. Wilson's main concern was for Gregg's mental and physical health. His friend had experienced violent dreams lately, and if he didn't soon open up about them, he could go over the edge and find himself not just awakening from a lousy dream, but locked into a padded room for his own protection.

Wilson wracked his brain in an effort to think of a way to remove himself in a manner which would not make it seem like he was running for the hills. The perfect opportunity came when Baxter finished his breakfast and came sniffing around for 'people-food'. Wilson put the dog off by scratching behind his ears and thinking of a way to use Baxter as a means to an end. He straightened and stood in the middle of the kitchen with hands resting lightly on hips, listening to House, who had swung into a rhythmic rendition of "Jambalaya", complete with southern twang and a gravely baritone.

"Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me-oh-my-oh

Me gotta go, pole the pirogue down the bayou …

My Yvonne, the sweetest one, me-oh-my-oh,

Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the bayou …"

House looked up from the keyboard and grinned an evil grin and watched his mother tap out the rhythm on the countertop with her fingers. "He was a favorite of your father's," she said. "He kept a couple of Hank's albums, and I swear, he wore them out. After a while the grooves turned almost white."

House nodded agreement and turned sideways on the bench. "I have a couple old albums that look the same way," he said. "You can't even clean 'em up anymore. No substitute for good music." Momentarily, he stood up and grasped his cane from the sounding board. "Gotta go

see a man about a rooster and a goat and a fishing boat …"

His mother and Wilson watched him hobble quickly down the hallway and turn the corner into the bedroom. "He certainly seems a lot better this morning, don't you think, James?"

Wilson looked at her and shrugged, reluctant to put his thoughts into words. "He told me earlier that the breakthrough pain has gone away. He's either telling the truth, or he's putting on a good show. I guess we'll know for sure as the day goes on."

"You're right," she agreed. "You'd know better than anyone else about his damn habit of hiding it when he's hurting … up until he can't contain it any longer. Does this happen often? Is his condition improving or deteriorating? Am I just imagining things?"

"It's been some time since he's had a CT scan or an MRI," Wilson admitted. "He always fights them, and tells me to mind my own business every time I mention that he's overdue. I think it's because he's been noticing changes in his body as he gets older, and is afraid of what they might mean, or what we might find if we examine him properly. I've never known anyone who hates gestures of sympathy or concern over his disability with the same intensity that he does. I try to maintain a close eye on him, not only because he's my best friend, but because he makes it difficult to keep track of any changes in his health."

Blythe nodded. "You've just said out loud everything I've been worried about for years. Thank you, James. John was a little like that sometimes, but he always had enough sense to go to sick bay or consult a medic when there was something wrong. But he was _nothing _like Gregg. Good lord! Gregg takes it to a whole new level of bullshit."

Wilson laughed in agreement. "You've certainly got that right."

While they stood talking, Baxter finished his food and wandered over to thrust his nose into Blythe's hand. "I think Bax needs to go out," she said. She started toward the door with the dog at her heels, but Wilson stopped her.

"Does he have a collar and a leash? And will he go for a walk with me? I really need to go out and get some fresh air and maybe explore the neighborhood a little."

Blythe smiled. She heard the urgency in his voice and realized what he was asking. "Oh yes, he loves to go for walks. I've kind of fallen down on the job with you two boys being here. You'll

find his choker with license attached and his leash in the bottom drawer of the cabinet over there. Help yourself … he'll love it. He still searches for John sometimes, you know."

Wilson opened the drawer that she had indicated and removed Baxter's chain and leash. The dog had already moved across and looked up to the man's face in anticipation. He danced from foot to foot in excitement and began a jittery whine that said nothing except: "Please …"

Wilson bent to slip the chain over the furry head. He scooped up his coat from the back of the kitchen chair where it had been hanging and swung gracefully into it. "If we're gone a little long, don't worry. This is a big neighborhood and there's lots to see out there …"

Blythe smiled gratefully at his astute reasoning. "I understand you perfectly, James," she said,

"and I can't thank you enough …"

"If you need me, you have my cell number on your phone, right?"

She nodded. "I do."

He winked and started for the door, with an eager Baxter pulling at the chain. "Good. Later, then." The door closed behind them and they were quickly out of sight.

Blythe started a fresh pot of coffee and sat down at the table to wait for her son.

oooooooo

House appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later. "I smell fresh coffee," he said, looking around. He took a seat opposite and immediately noticed that Wilson's coat was missing.

"Where's Wilson?"

She was not surprised he'd asked. James Wilson was her son's one constant; his only anchor in life and the solid rock he clung to when the seas turned stormy. Wilson was the one to whom Gregg could spill his darkest secrets because he could not do such a thing with anyone else. Ever. James argued and cajoled and wheedled and bullied and generally made a nuisance of himself until he got what he wanted. And Gregg would rant and rave and shout and curse to the point that Wilson would sometimes throw his hands in the air and stalk out. But James was the one person who would not leave him, even when Gregg was at his worst. She had sometimes wondered whether their relationship still remained platonic, or whether it might have progressed to another level during the time since she had seen them last. Anyway, none of her business.

If they wanted her to know, they'd tell her.

"He took Baxter for a walk, dear," she said gently. "I think he was feeling a little stir crazy." She studied his mobile features searching for clues, but this time his face told her nothing. He nodded once, as was his habit, and concentrated his attention on his strong, beautiful hands clasped together on the table before him.

"Are you all right, Gregg?"

His head came up sharply. Suspicion etched itself in bold furrows above the slant of his brows and the dark glint of his eyes. "I'm fine."

"Stop that! You're _not _fine. I know you didn't want to come down here, but thank God James forced you because he's concerned about you. Oh, don't look at me that way! You know it's true. The man cares for you and he has your back, no matter what. He never says much, but I see it in his eyes."

"Oh Christ, Mom … we fight like angry lovers and I never let him keep the upper hand because

he might tell me things about myself that I don't know if I can handle. If you knew all the crap I've thrown at him … and a lot of other people over the years … you wouldn't say things like that."

"Are you, Gregory?

"Am I what?" His scowl was filled with anger and fear.

"Don't deliberately misinterpret me, Gregg. You know what I'm talking about. Are the two of you angry lovers? You said it yourself."

His head went down almost to the top of the table. "No," he said carefully. "We're not. If we were, we'd kill each other.

"But I did kill his girlfriend, Mom, and there's nothing I or anyone else can do about that.

I went to a bar and got drunk and the bartender took my keys. I called Wilson for a ride home, but he'd been called back to work and Amber came to pick me up. The bus we were riding on was T-boned by a garbage compactor. I got a whack on the head that scrambled my brains for a while. And Amber died. If I'd have gone straight home after work, she'd still be alive. But no, I had to go drown my sorrows in booze and now she's gone. I thought I'd lost my friend too, because he was devastated. He wouldn't see me, wouldn't talk to me. He went away for a long time and wouldn't have anything to do with me. He said no, but I still think he blamed me …"

"Oh darling, how can you consider such a thing? If you and Amber were on a bus and the bus got hit, how could her death have been your fault? That doesn't make sense."

"There were circumstances beyond anyone's control. There were misunderstandings and I couldn't remember details that were vitally important … and when I did remember, it was too late. The only good thing was the fact that the old man croaked a couple of months later. Cuddy talked Wilson into dragging me to the funeral. If it hadn't been for the two of them,

I'd never have come …"

Blythe jerked upright in her chair. "Gregory! 'the old man croaked'? He was your _father!"_

"See what I mean? Too often the stuff inside my head comes gushing out my mouth. I didn't mean anything by that, other than the fact that I hated him. He was your husband, so there had

to have been some things about him that were worth loving. I just didn't get to see a lot of them. The crappy stuff always outweighed the good stuff."

"But he was your _father," _she repeated. "He loved you very much and wanted you to be happy and make a good life for yourself."

_She honestly believes John House is my real father, for chrissake …_

"I never heard much of that from him. I felt more like a Marine recruit than a son. His methods of punishment shouldn't happen to a dog. In fact, he probably treated Baxter better than he ever treated me. When I became a cripple, he accused me of faking. Told me to 'walk it off, Gregg'. Yeah, right … like that was ever gonna happen. I couldn't win with him, so I stayed the hell away."

Blythe reached across and laid a hand gently atop one of his. She hurt for him deep down inside when she felt him tremble at her touch and start nervously, as though he might try to jerk away. "Yes, he was a hard man sometimes, dear, but he never meant to hurt you in any way."

"He had some strange ways of showing it." House raised his head and let his eyes sweep the kitchen and the living room as though looking for some tangible evidence of the man who had lived there. "He did tell me a lot of the stuff you just said though. Yesterday, in fact …"

His eyes landed on her and his right hand gravitated to his thigh. She intended to ask him what he'd meant, but he hurried on quickly as though to cover up an error in his own conversation.

"Is the coffee ready, Mom? If it is, I could sure use a cup. If this is going to turn into a marathon, I guess I'd better have some fortification …"

They both shoved to their feet, she to pour the coffee and he to return to the bedroom where Wilson had left the Vicodin vial the night before.

When they had settled again, House busied his nervous hands with his coffee cup, rubbing at his leg and running his fingers through the scruff on his face. Finally he heaved a sigh and turned his eyes upon her face.

"I'm gonna tell you something, Mom, that I haven't told anybody else. You have to promise you'll keep it to yourself, or I won't bother. Understand? Pretend it's the Marine Corps and this is Top Secret. If any of this ever gets back to Wilson, he'll toss me in the looney bin, and I'm not too sure I'm not headed there anyway …"

Her face looked stricken, he thought.

"I promise."

oooooooooooo

8


	39. Chapter 39

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #39

"Life of the Party"

Thursday,

January 22nd, 2009:

Afternoon

"Gregg, what did you mean when you said your father told you some of what I said?

Something about 'yesterday'?"

House was nervous; lines of regret stamped on his forehead. He took a swallow of coffee and sighed deeply. "I've had nightmares, Mom. About Dad and Amber. All week. Dreams

and hallucinations. Sometimes at night when I was having pain and couldn't sleep, I'd sneak out here and sit at the table or over in Dad's recliner. I hit your booze once or twice, late at night. Bax and I finished off the leftover KFC too.

"I began hearing his voice coming out of the dog, just as clear as though the old man was sitting right across this table from me like you are now. And I'd stare at Bax and blink my eyes, trying to get rid of the visions, but they wouldn't go away. His head would move up and down, and his ears would go back and forth, and his eyes would blink and he'd walk around. Then he'd come back and sit down in front of me again, and I could have sworn it _was _Dad … the way he used to pace when he was mad. And old Blackjack would still be reading me the riot act, same as always."

House's eyes were hooded, nearly closed in anticipation of what his mother might say in response. She sat quite still, however, looking at him in something that seemed to House a lot

like bewilderment.

Finally: "Did you drink enough out of my stash to actually get_ that _drunk?"

His dimples deepened a bit, but he did not actually smile. "No. Not at all. I owe you the respect of not getting ripped in your house. I wasn't drunk. I wondered if maybe you would think I had DTs …"

"No. I didn't mean anything like that. I know what DTs are. I was just wondering why you thought Baxter looked like your dad … even John's ears weren't THAT big!"

_Was she putting him on? Yes._

"Nothing to do with what I saw, Mom … and you're teasing me. It was what I heard. It was like the voice of Odin coming out of Valhalla … if I believed in that bullshit, which I don't, and neither do you … it was kind of like that. But it was Dad; or something that sounded like Dad.

I know how weird this sounds, but I swear it's true.

"He said if I thought he was such a lousy father, then why didn't I just turn it all around and grow up to be Prince Charming? I couldn't answer him. It seems I have this talent to be proven wrong even by my own hallucinations. He reamed me out for a lot of other stuff that I don't remember anything about … like when he caught me in the cellar with a pack of smokes. And the Halloween parade where I was scared of one of the clowns. I remembered those things when he was telling me about them, but afterwards the memories faded back to nothing more than dreams."

"Does this happen to you often, Gregg?"

"No. But you should probably know it's not something new. It happened the first time when I was still in the hospital after the accident with the Corvette. Baxter had only been on the scene for a week or so. He jumped up on the bed with me, and the The Colonel's voice came out of him. The first thing he said to me was, get off the booze and stop the bullshit; quit playing games with life.

"He blamed me for Stacy leaving … and you know … if I have to hear one more time how she saved my life, I think I'll throw up. She's responsible for my lack of a usable leg. I was right, and my way would have worked a hell of a lot better than the way it is now … if they'd let me the hell alone. I could probably be walking now with not much more than a limp, if that. But that's water under the bridge, isn't it? Stacy was smart and funny and great in bed; but we'd never have made it if we'd got married."

"I didn't like her, son."

"What?"

"You heard me. She and I never did make a connection. We had absolutely nothing in common. She was intelligent and demanding and absolutely certain she was always right. You were both very much alike in that regard. She was a lawyer whether she was in court or out of it. She had that spark in her eye that said she would get her way, one way or another, or somebody's head would roll ...

"When you two visited us that time, she flirted with your father to the point that he was soon following after her like a whipped puppy. I never saw him so flummoxed before, and I sensed that she was only doing it to bait you. She knew you and your dad didn't get along and she flaunted it in your face that she could wrap him around her finger if she wanted to. I was actually relieved when you left a day early."

"I'm sorry, Mom," House said softly. "I didn't realize. Maybe I didn't want to; I don't know anymore. What I'm beginning to realize now, and what I'm learning, is that I gave you a lot of grief my whole life. My attitude stank. I was a pain in the ass as a kid. I regret that. The Marine Corps didn't help either, with all its discipline and pompous, high-handed ways. Seemed every time I made a friend, Dad would get reassigned and I'd have to try to make friends all over again. It pissed me off, and I was totally sick of it. But that's the way the military works. Finally I quit trying to be friendly with anyone, and that attitude just followed me all through my life. I figured it was safer not to make friends because I'd only lose them sooner or later anyhow. That's probably why I only have one friend left. You learn to stop missing them after enough of them have been left behind.

"Wilson is the only friend I ever had that, when I tried to get rid of him, he refused to leave. The one time he did leave, I was so lost I didn't know what to do. He has always stuck to me like glue and I have no idea why. Sometimes it scares me." House tipped his coffee cup, but the coffee was cold and he set the cup back on the table.

Blythe went for the coffee pot and poured them each another cup. When she sat down again, she reached for his hand and he let her take it into her own. "I'm going to tell you something, dear, and it would be nice if you didn't say anything until I'm finished."

He looked at her with a face full of questions. His answer was the usual nod.

"When you were talking about some of the things that happened between you and your father while you were growing up, there were some facts about a few of those instances that you didn't know about, and he never bothered to tell you."

House's head came up. Looking her directly in the eyes, he said softly: "I won't get mad, Mom.

I promise. Being mad never got me anywhere. It's okay on the job sometimes, but it's lousy at home."

"When you were three years old and your father came home on leave … he tried to play with you and love you and hold you, and you told him to go fuck himself. You were only trying to be funny because he always said it to be funny … but he took it personally.

He was deeply hurt, because the day before, on maneuvers, a good friend of his had a burnout over Death Valley. The plane went into a tailspin and hit the ground at 500 miles an hour. They couldn't even find enough of the pilot to bury him. Your dad didn't know how to tell a three-year-old that his heart was hurt. When you said those words to him, he just lost it. But what does a three-year-old know about those things? He was very sorry about it and tried to make up with you, but you wouldn't have anything to do with him. So he left it go. That was a mistake. He shouldn't have. It may have been the start of the rift between you.

"At the Halloween parade when you were five or six … when the clown walked over to give you candy … you were scared of him. You screamed and kicked and reared backwards. Your dad didn't have a very good hold on you. He almost dropped you on your head. If you hadn't been caught by him and another man, heaven only knows what might have happened.

"The incident when you sneaked down the cellar to smoke cigarettes … You holed up under the steps where it was musty and dark. You didn't know it then, but that's where we kept the gas cans for the lawn mower and his chain saw. There were gasoline droppings on the floor and on the cans, but I guess you didn't smell them. If you'd dropped a careless spark or a match, the whole house might have gone up, and you'd have been dead. You scared the hell out of both of us that day. But you took off and ran over to the Bishops' place. I know your dad told you why he made you smoke the rest of the pack. But you were so mad that you just weren't listening. And he was too stubborn to talk to you about it again.

"So, you see, dear, he was a pig-headed, angry man. He had no idea how to be a father, but he wasn't all bad. And he loved you."

"I didn't know any of that stuff, Mom"

"Of course you didn't. You were young and reckless … and it was a very long time ago."

"I'm still as messed up now as I was then. I'm arrogant and angry and in pain, just like he was all those years ago. His pain then was different from my pain now … but mostly it's all the same, isn't it? The only thing that keeps me focused anymore is my job. Like his job did for him.

"The puzzle, Mom … I have the ability to figure out whatever it is that makes patients ill. I attribute that to the gifts I've been given through intelligence and luck and the fortuitous inheritance of good genes. I can usually come to a logical conclusion and figure out medical procedures that work. It's the one gift I have to give.

"I'm good at it, Mom. I'm good enough that, for whatever reason, my name is known on the eastern seaboard, and from time to time I see my picture in the papers and in magazines. But that's not why I do what I do. The work deadens the pain. Before the infarction it deadened the pain of being the enemy of my dad. After the infarction, it was my way of proving to my dad that I wasn't a fake; that I knew what I was doing. The work keeps me going. Plus the drugs and the pills and the booze … and Wilson, that idiot who won't leave."

Blythe smiled and squeezed his hand. "And Wilson. 'That dear, sweet, uncompromising idiot. I'm not blind, dear."

"I didn't think you were. Only now I'm beginning to hallucinate his dead girlfriend. Do you remember when we had lunch at Country Cupboard the other day, and when the waiter came to take my order, my mind was somewhere else?"

"Yes, of course. It was almost like you were in a trance."

"I was, I think I saw Amber up front, standing at the cash register. Just before she walked out, she turned around and looked me full in the eyes. And I couldn't look away."

"Oh dear. Did she say anything?"

"No. But that wasn't the first time I saw her. She was in Target while we were there. Every aisle we walked up or down, she was watching me from about two aisles away. I had no idea who she was then … just that she was pretty and she kept looking at me … and the thoughts in my head kept getting all jumbled up.

"Last night I dreamed about her, and it was so real. She was walking down the sidewalk right outside your house. I dreamed I ran outside in my underwear and tried to catch up with her, but of course she was gone. I woke up with all the covers at the bottom of the bed, freezing to death and shaking like a leaf.

"I don't know, Mom … that's why I said I think I'm on the short track to the looney bin …"

"I think you're wrong about that, dear, or you wouldn't be telling me about it now. You needed to get it off your chest. Does James know you've been seeing Amber?"

"No … and he'll never find out if I can help it. It would only hurt him and bring back all the bad memories. He's had enough of those. Hell … maybe he's had about enough of me too."

"Don't you ever believe it!"

He lowered his head. The smile was tiny, but it was a smile.

"Mom?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I need a break. All this angst is getting heavy … and I have a crippled leg after all. Is there any of that banana creme pie left?"

She laughed quietly and gave his hand a last squeeze. "Of course there is. James and I are the only ones who ate any of it. It might be good for what ails you … crippled leg and all. Would you like a slice?"

His eyes widened. She had just joked about his disability, and somehow the realization grounded him in comfortable reality. "Slice? Oh hell, I'd like a _slab!"_

She laughed again, and it was hearty and filled with a mother's pride. She poured the last of the coffee into his cup and went to the refrigerator. When she finished cutting through the crust there was a full quarter of the leftover pie languishing on his plate. Maybe he was getting his appetite back.

"Cool! Thanks."

She started the coffee pot again and headed back to the table. Gregg finished his pie with a flourish and he reminded her of Baxter; all bright-eyed, bushy tailed and looking around for more. It was amazing how his lack of pain this morning had improved his mood. She knew his good days were few and far between, but it seemed that he was determined to enjoy this one. The best thing about it was that it had taken so little effort for them to begin to understand each other.

A soft tap came from the back door and she assumed it was James and the dog returning from their walk. Great timing.

She called out quickly. "Door's open, dear. Come on in."

The person who walked into the kitchen, however, was not Wilson.

oooooooo

She was tall and thin and very blonde. She was holding a large manila envelope in one hand and a set of car keys in the other. Not a neighbor. She'd arrived from further away. House leaned back in his chair and stared rudely. She was attractive, but a lot older than first appearance might suggest. Out of customary courtesy, he shoved himself to his feet with a rattle of his cane on the chair back.

_Hair out of a bottle! _ He thought nastily. Then he looked a little closer.

_Oh my God!_

The woman had been speaking with Blythe, handing her the envelope and then removing her coat. She was dressed in black slacks and a red turtle-neck sweater. As House continued to

stare from across the table, she smiled and stood looking back at him with hands on hips. It

was like looking into a mirror. The effect was so instantly familiar that he swallowed hard

and placed both hands on the table for balance before he landed on his ass from pure surprise.

"Hi, Gregg," she said. "Been a long time. You do remember me, right?"

"You haven't changed much. You still have that goofy haircut … you're a lot older … and a lot taller. You look just like your mom. How've you been, Neela?"

_He almost said: "How've you been 'Sis'?"_

The former Neela Stratton walked around the table, held out her arms and locked him into a tight, warm embrace. She said nothing about his obvious dearth of balance, or the favoring of his right leg, or his thin frame, or the thick cane hanging from the back of the chair. It was like she had not even seen any of that. She hugged him like a very old friend whom she had not seen in quite a long time. Which he was.

"Holy cow!" She exclaimed. "I forgot how tall you really are." She was standing on tip toes in order to wrap her arms about his shoulders.

House had no idea how to respond. He just said "Uh huh …" and enjoyed the hug. She smelled good. He thought back to the time she'd pulled him, all hot and bothered, into the bushes, and his horror when he saw the red wine stain beneath her hair. With his own hair thinning out, he hoped she would not spot the similar birthmark under his hair line that matched her own.

"Coffee, Neela?" Blythe asked. Water was already running for the third pot of the day.

"I'd love some," Neela replied. "It's cold out there." She backed away from House and looked him up and down. "My God, how distinguished you look! Like Mr. Huffnagle in math class, second period. Remember him?

"Your hair is going gray … and your beard already did. Do you always wear it like that? I like it a lot. Who would have believed that a scrawny kid like you would grow up to be such a sexy hunk?" She laughed at his embarrassment and the fact that he still had not said a thing except a mangled variation of 'hello'.

"Cat got your tongue, Greggy?"

He smiled and reached across the end of the table to pull out a chair for her. "No, not really," he said. "It's just that I'm still recovering from seeing you again after all this time. If we'd passed each other on the street we'd never have known each other."

They both looked up at the same moment and their eyes touched. Neela's were a little wistful. "Oh yeah," she said softly. "I'd have recognized you anywhere …"

House's eyes darted away. It didn't take a genius to understand what she meant. His hand went automatically to his thigh. "Yeah … well …"

Far from being chastised, Neela boldly placed the rest of her thoughts on the table. "No, Gregg, you don't understand. I knew you were ill for a long time. I know you walk with a limp and sometimes you're in pain. I knew all that a long time ago. What I said was just a heads-up to let you know that I know. Actually, I don't give a damn about that. It's you I came over here to see. Dad drove past a couple days ago and said he saw a car in Blythe's driveway with New Jersey plates. We figured it had to be you, and to be perfectly truthful, I wondered what you were like after all these years. You don't exactly beat down your mom's doorstep with home visits. So I had to know."

House smiled; there and gone like quicksilver. Evidently she wasn't going to regale him with sympathy or syrupy compassion, thank God. This, perhaps, he could handle. He decided to

deal with it in a manner that wouldn't profligate _too_ much of a lie. "I have a big case load back home," he said. "It's not always possible to get away whenever I want. This time my boss informed me that I had built up a, pardon the expression, 'shitload' of vacation time. She said: 'get out of here for a week or so. Go to Lexington to see your mother!' So there it is … and here I am … and here we all are …"

Blythe was laughing at the exchange as she poured them each a cup of steaming coffee. When she returned the pot to its brewer and came back, the manila envelope House had seen earlier was in her hand. "Here Gregg … take a look at these. See how much you remember." She placed the envelope on the table, along with a half-dozen-or-so handsome old 8x10 black and white photographic prints. "Coe told me she found these in a closet she was cleaning out last week. With you boys visiting and all, I forgot about them. Besides, they gave Neela the perfect reason to visit and get reacquainted with you."

The pictures had been taken with somebody's Brownie Hawkeye, and one or two were slightly

out of focus. Most of them, however, were sharp and defined and depicted a sizable group of families, including kids and dogs, in front of a cabin set at the edge of a wood. There was a picnic table with food scattered about. There were a couple of the dogs wandering about in some of the pictures, and at the front of one of them stood a stick-skinny boy and a stick-skinny girl in jeans and tee shirts with fishing poles in their hands and grimy grins on their faces. Both their unoccupied hands were thrown haphazardly across each other's shoulders. Behind them, a slightly younger boy had sneaked up close and was extending a peace sign like two rabbit-ear antennas behind their heads.

Without his reading glasses, Gregg had to bend close to see all the details, but the identities of each person came flooding back to his consciousness. It was a giant slice of 'yesterday' that tugged at his consciousness and nearly brought tears to his eyes. In the back row of the top photo, stood his mom and The Colonel; although it would be a long time yet before he actually became a Colonel. They were both clear-faced enough and thin enough to be considered young. Their arms were around each other and there were huge smiles on both their faces.

Beside them were Walt and Connie Bishop. Gregg stared hard at their images in order to make out their features. It had been a very long time since he had seen these people, and he felt a longing he could not repress. He had gotten on well with all four of the Bishop boys, and had sometimes thought about them and wondered what had become of them. All four were sitting on the the picnic table with their bare feet on the benches. Tom and Joe were twins and a few years older than their little brothers. Both sported Afro haircuts that made them look a lot like show poodles. The two smaller boys hugged each other and blended together like someone had placed two small tree limbs in the middle of the table. House regretted the way old black and white photographs always obscured the features of people of color. It sometimes caused the memories of those occasions to blur as much as their faces.

House's eyes glistened as he studied the pictures again and then looked from Neela to his mom with a shy smile on his face. They were both smiling back.

The third twosome in the photograph were the Strattons: Gil, macho as hell and always cock-sure of himself; and Coe … Cotillion Clarissa Campbell of Philadelphia … tall, slender and blonde … with an attitude: 'If you call me Cotillion or Clarissa you're going home with a goddamn black eye! Dammit, I wasn't about to go to some sleazy motel with a walking septic tank,' she'd proclaimed. 'So I gave him a small attitude adjustment. If he wanted to go out with me, he'd be a gentleman, or else.' And he had, from that day on. The Strattons in the photo stood side-by-side with their heads leaning toward each other and lightly touching. The wind was blowing their hair and they were smiling.

The kids, all seven of them of varying ages and skin colorings, had one thing in common on that day. They were dressed like ragamuffins in shorts and tee shirts, filthy and ragged; faces, elbows and knees caked with dirt and sand, hair every which way, and happy as hell. Gregg recalled the week very well. They were in the deep woods of Pennsylvania at a rented cabin with a beautiful rippling creek running behind it, a dirt road with little or no traffic about a hundred yards in front of it. Isolated and private. The kids could run and yell and play all they wanted and the adults could relax and have some beers and shoot the shit or go fishing, or walk in the woods for hours, which they did.

The guy who rented the cabin took the pictures, Neela recalled. Coe had the best of them enlarged with the intention of sharing a set with each of the other families. But somehow they had been packed away and forgotten … until a week or two ago when Coe had found them deep in a closet.

Blythe and Gregg and Neela sat at the table reminiscing and drinking coffee and eating ham and cheese sandwiches for the next hour. Gregg held one of the photographs close at hand, studying the smiling faces and the background and all the tiny details, endeavoring to bring back the carefree atmosphere of the time. He thought of something his mother had said once: 'It wasn't all bad, Gregg. We had some very good times in those days …'

_Yes we did, Mom …_

oooooooo

The back door opened ten minutes later and Baxter walked across to Neela to be petted. When Neela glanced across quickly to Gregg, she saw his eyes light up and she was very curious to meet the handsome stranger who entered breathlessly behind the dog.

Wilson removed his coat and took it into the living room, then returned to look at Neela with interest and expectation. He did not need to be told who she was. The answer was obvious.

Her eyes were a little lighter blue and the set of her nose and mouth were smaller, but the effect for him was a dead giveaway. For a moment he was taken aback. He glanced across at House whose sudden apprehension served as a warning shot across the bow.

All this in the breadth of a second. Quickly, Wilson retracted his 'amazed' face and replaced it with one of his warmest drop-dead smiles. "I was wondering whose car was parked outside …"

_Migod, they look alike! Their eyes alone are so similar that you'd have to blind not to see it!_

Blythe was already on her feet and at the coffee pot with a clean cup. "Hi, James. We have a visitor … someone you'll be very interested to meet."

Wilson looked at Neela, at Blythe, and last of all, at House. House looked relaxed and free of pain, and even a little upbeat. Wilson relaxed visibly.

"James Wilson, I'd like you to meet a very old friend: Neela Stratton Reichenbach. She and her brother and Gregg grew up together … all over the world. Neela, this is Gregg's best friend back in Princeton. James is an oncologist and they're colleagues at the same hospital."

Neela was already standing while they were introduced, and she was grinning like the cat that got the canary. Wilson was still astounded by how much Neela and his best friend resembled each other. Was he the only one who noticed? Evidently so. Although Gregg's warning glare said differently. James found it difficult not to laugh out loud with delight.

As they shook hands, Neela looked Wilson up and down in the same manner she'd used with House. "My God, you look like someone who just stepped out from between the pages of Playgirl. You both do. Wow, Blythe … look at them … they're gorgeous. It's an honor to

meet you, James. I've heard some good things about you."

Wilson was a little embarrassed to be called 'gorgeous', and more-so to be placed into the same category as House. He smiled and turned a pale shade of pink, while House scoffed behind the palm of his hand.

"He's known at the hospital as 'Wonder Boy Oncologist'. Among other things I can't say in polite company.

"And I can't repeat _anything _they call you in polite company!" Wilson shot back. "Anyway, I'm pleased to meet you Neela. Also, I won't repeat anything he's told me about you."

"And why not?" She retorted. "I'd be more than happy to report everything I know about him!"

oooooooo

By the time Neela got ready to leave, they'd been together gossiping, reminiscing and laughing for more than four hours. It was late into the afternoon and the sun was listing toward the west.

"I've enjoyed this," she told them. "It seems to me that no matter what people say, and what I've heard all my life, us 'service brats' aren't such badasses after all. At least you and I aren't, are we, Gregg?"

"Semper Fi!" He exclaimed and raised his hand flat, palm out.

She reached out and high-fived him.

"Hoo rah!" And they laughed. For the good times …

"I really must get going. Thank you for a marvelous day. Mom said she'd call you sometime next week, Blythe.

"Goodbye. It was a pleasure meeting you, James. You boys take good care of one another …" Her triumphant smile followed her out the door.

She was gone before anyone could reply.

"So that was Neela Stratton," Wilson mused. "Not at all what I expected …"

oooooooooooo

11


	40. Chapter 40

"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter #40

"The Caged Bird Sings"

Friday,

January 23rd, 2009

Noonish

Gregory House was extraordinarily restrained on Friday. He spoke when spoken to, but seemed unwilling to initiate a conversation on his own. He talked, and even laughed and joked during meals, but afterward retreated to the old recliner across from the television and became deeply engrossed in a Modern Marvels marathon. A bag of potato chips and Baxter, eyes bright with expectation, accompanied him. Gregg rested at an ungainly angle in the recliner, left hip down and the leg rest fully extended.

He caressed his thigh intermittently, rubbing clockwise, circling the scar with exploratory fingers. The opposite hand dipped into the chip bag … three for Gregg, one for Baxter. From time to time his body would twitch sharply as though someone kept jabbing him with a pin.

Blythe and James carefully attended to other occupations, although both were a tad concerned about his state of mind. House's facial expression exuded preoccupation and detachment. The furrows on his forehead stood out like a freshly ploughed field, and his eyes were deep, dark

and remote.

They wouldn't have been surprised if they'd found a sign hanging from his nose that read: "Keep Out!"

oooooooo

In the basement, other chores loomed.

James leaned over a pair of loaded laundry hampers, slowly sorting and organizing the past week's soiled clothing and linens. They tossed all the towels, wash cloths and tea towels in first. Blythe added detergent, non-chlorine bleach and fabric softener and set the washer in motion. "One down, two to go," she said. She pushed back a stray lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead and looked at Wilson with questioning eyes. "What's going on with Gregg, dear? Do you have any idea? Is he hurting again and trying to cover it up? He appears a little uneasy and angry. "

Wilson straightened from patiently turning all of House's socks right-side out, and glanced up to meet her gaze. He smiled indulgently. "To be perfectly truthful, I'm not certain what might be going through that devious mind. He could be experiencing some pain, but if he is, he's stuffing it and staring at the TV on purpose. He does that sometimes to throw people off. I know he took his meds this morning; two Vicodin right after he got up. Probably a couple more later on. But if he did take the second dose, he hid it from me. He was pleasant enough at breakfast and lunch, but he made it perfectly clear he wants to be left alone. When he gets like that, I'm happy to keep my distance."

"He's very moody, isn't he?" Blythe went on. "Like when he went back to your room to be alone to give himself that shot … and afterward he sat out on the porch and almost froze to death."

This time Wilson laughed for real. "He was making a statement."

"What? I don't ... ?"

"He was sore, and we weren't really paying any attention. What he says and what he does are different breeds of cat. His pain … or lack of it … almost always dictates his moods. I don't

think he intends for it to be that way, but his leg pain does rule him. He admitted that to me. He hates anyone to make a fuss or offer sympathy, and then gets pissed off and stomps away from anyone who doesn't pay enough attention when he expects it. By the same token, if he's in a _lot _of pain and nobody notices, he gets snippy about that too. He's easily hurt and easily offended, but he covers it up with insulting comments and black humor. I can usually tell when things are 'off'. Sometimes I just can't win for losing, but I've learned to read his body language, and I can pretty well gauge whether or not to let him alone. Somehow it usually works out."

Wilson walked across the broad cement floor of the basement, using his actions as a delaying tactic. He sighed deeply and hid a cryptic smile.

_Think about THAT one, Lady! I know we've given you a lot of crap to swallow this week …_

Hepicked up two lawn chairs he'd spotted against the far wall, and brought them back to the laundry area. He pulled both chairs open with deliberate slowness and set them down near the washer and dryer. He and Blythe took seats across from each other and the washing machine rumbled on.

Blythe was silent for a moment, trying to read Wilson's thoughts. Then: "According to what you just told me, his leg must be hurting him again today, but he'd rather cut off his damn foot than have us know about it." She shook her head in wonder and disbelief. "I really don't understand, James. One would think he'd want to have someone nearby who cares about him when he's going through this. Talk about 'cutting off one's nose to spite one's face …'"

"If you could come up with an answer for that one, Blythe, the entire medical profession would be in your debt forever. He'd rather be alone than take the chance of anyone bearing witness to emotions he can't hide. I've wracked my brain for years, but sometimes I think I'm bashing my head against a brick wall. Your son is a unique personality. He's a big genius child in a grown man's body. I can't convince him to tear down the walls and allow people in. He insists he's better off alone, because nobody else can stand being around him. And if that's not contradictory, I don't know what is."

They sat still for a few minutes, each thinking private thoughts. The washer swished and hissed and gurgled and finally paused and groaned and lumbered into rinse cycle.

"One thing I'm pretty sure of today," Wilson continued. "He's sore, and the remaining muscle group near the area of his scar might be trying to spasm, but he's also distracted himself from it."

"I don't understand. 'Distracted' … how?"

Wilson went on: "By 'distracted', I mean he has something else going on that he can use to

draw his mind away from fixating on his leg. He can really do that. He and Baxter will sit in there and scarf down that whole bag of chips. The dog helps keep his focus away from the pain.

That's also what his medical genius does for him, and why it's so vital. The diagnostic puzzle of the case he's working on consumes his attention completely and lets him focus on finding the right treatment for his patient. His power of total concentration is something to watch when he's in the middle of a case.

"Today he has the TV on the History Channel; he has a bag of chips on the chair beside him,

and Baxter is right there waiting for him to toss another chip. It's a game for the dog and a giant thinking tool for Gregg. He's processing. Something. I'm not sure what yet. If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say it has something to do with yesterday. He never lets anything rest, you know …"

In the minutes while the washer ground itself into final spin cycle and there was too much noise to talk, Wilson did some leisurely walking around inside his own head:

_I'm trying to hand this lady a load of crap about something I'm not even sure of myself. You'd think I'm some kind of expert on the mind of Gregory House. That's not true. He has the ability to leave me with my mouth hanging open a dozen times a day, and I'm a total patsy for anything he wants to throw at me. Right now he's staring at the TV like there's something going to jump out of it that'll give him the solution to the mysteries of the universe._

_Right! And I'm Dr. Livingston, I presume. _

_He might be talking to the dog … and the dog might be talking back again, for all I know. But if I mention anything House told me about that dog to Blythe, she'll have us __**both**__ dragged away _

_to the looney bin._

_The thing that bothers me most, I think, is the astounded look I saw on his face yesterday when Neela Stratton, (I forget her married name,) stopped by with those old photographs. He didn't say anything last night, but I bet he felt as though he was looking into a mirror when he looked at her. _

_The trip over here was an excuse on Neela's part, I think … in fact, I'm sure. The pictures were the ticket that got her into the show. Curiosity kills the cat. Neela wanted to see him all grown up and find out if there was anything left of the boy she used to know. She probably also wanted to check out the rumors she'd heard about his crippled leg. So now she knows. Yeah, Neela, he's a cripple. Also, he's so much more than that!_

_House said she was cool about the leg though, and I have to give her credit. It seemed to have put him pretty much at ease. Don't know why that bugs me … she is his sister, after all. It's too bad she'll never know. Jeez, what a weird concept! Gregory House, the perennial 'only child',_

_has a sister. _

_They look so much alike! How could Neela and Blythe not notice? Familiarity, I guess … can't see the forest for the trees. They really have no idea that Gilbert Stratton is the biological father to both of them … and Blythe has no idea that John House wasn't Gregg's real dad. This is absolutely unthinkable in this day and age. It's like she's been living in the Stone Age. How could she really NOT KNOW? It's too goddamn complicated for me. I'm kind of glad we're leaving for home tomorrow …_

"James?"

"What … ? Oh, sorry. I was wool gathering." He was blushing, berating himself for the way the blood rushed to his face when she caught him having a conversation with himself. "I was just looking around this big basement, wondering if you have a car … or a riding mower ..."

She nodded, smiling. His attention lapse was very short, and he was good at covering up his own mental meanderings. She wondered what he was _really _thinking. Worrying about Gregg, she had no doubts. "Of course I have a car. Two, in fact. And a mower. See that door over there beside the furnace?"

"Uh huh."

"It leads into a two-car garage. My car is in there, and so is John's pickup truck and a huge Grasshopper lawn mower. The bay door opens with a remote control and there's a ramp that goes up to ground level. It comes out behind the back porch, just a short distance from where your car is parked."

"Interesting," he said. "You'd never know it was there … if you didn't know it was there. Or something."

They both laughed.

The second load of wash consisted of whites and light-colored clothing. There was a heap of it. Blythe stuffed everything into the drum, added all the right cleaning ingredients and hit the 'start' button. The monster rumbled to life. They were busy for the next fifteen minutes folding towels, washcloths and tea towels.

oooooooo

Gregg House crumpled the potato chip bag and turned it into an unyielding cylinder by wringing it out like a dishrag. Less space in the trashcan that way, he thought. Baxter sat at his side with tail still sweeping the floor, ears working back and forth like the gears of a fork lift. "Aint no mo," House grunted, holding both hands palms out. "All gone. Kaput. Done. Fini. If we ate any more of those, we'd both have a big freakin' bellyache."

He pulled himself forward with effort, grunting slightly as the recliner's mechanism trundled

upward to a sitting position. Baxter scrambled out of the way. House's leg spiked once and then settled down again as he pushed slowly to his feet, gathered the chip bag and his cane and limped heavily into the kitchen. Behind him, Modern Marvels segued to another shitload of asinine commercials, and he needed something to drink … and a good piss. He tossed the bag in the trash and reached into the refrigerator for a can of beer. He set the beer on the island and started down the hallway to the bedroom.

Where the hell were his mom and Wilson? They certainly weren't nearby. He heard no sounds of intermittent laughter or conversation. The air inside the house wasn't stirring, so no clues where two bodies in motion might be, and no clue as to where they might have gone. No matter. He had other fish to fry.

House swung into the bathroom and relieved himself. After he washed his hands and reached for a towel, however, the towel bar was empty. So was the double bar just outside the shower. He solved the problem by wiping his hands on the fancy fabric shower curtain.

_AHA! Methinks they have absconded to the washboard, the flat stones and the creek, along with all the towels. So be it … I shall soldier on without them ..._

House grabbed the beer off the counter and crossed over to the recliner again. Dammit! He

should have grabbed the Vicodin bottle too. His thigh was beginning to ping like the counter

on a gas pump. He was glad he'd thought of it before he sat down again. He went back to the kitchen and retrieved his pills off the island. He eased himself gingerly back into the recliner's broad seat and pushed the mechanism to full recline. The foot rest came up and relieved some

of the pressure building beneath the scar. He released two of the fat white pills into his hand

and palmed them quickly into his mouth, followed by a slug of cold beer.

_Writing my own prescription … always take your drugs with a swig of Bud Lite._

Leaning back, he focused on the TV screen. They were running a very old black and white film, full of grainy images and jerky movements depicting the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge. He stared at it without seeing it. His mind was elsewhere, traveling swiftly into an alternate plane of existence, and the living room and all its contents were fading out like a curtain falling on a stage.

Baxter came back into the room and sat beside the recliner. Head tilted curiously to the side, he stared at the man. But the man wasn't there. Baxter stretched out on the floor …

oooooooo

The voice came out of the air around him. Mysterious, ephemeral:

Amber Volakis!

_Listen to me!_

_You have no idea what you're looking for, do you, Gregory House? You always look for ways _

_to change what-is … and replace it with what-can-never-be. But you know you can't, so why _

_do you persist?_

_Don't fight against the rain. It __**will**__ come down._

_Who are you, House? What are your demons? What do you see when your own image comes to mind? Do you see a doctor who is fighting disease and looking for clues to combat the suffering of patients? Or do you see the pathetic cripple that offends some, and yet touches the hearts of others? Let the hearts of others be touched, House. They need the practice._

_Are you still the man who cringes from the harsh reality of his parents' choices? Are you less of a man because the man who raised you was not the man who gave you life? Are you less of a man because your mother lay down with someone who was not her husband? How important is it now? Is it so important that the only father you ever knew had no idea how to be a father? Forgive him his sins, House. You have a few of your own._

_Are you so filled with hate for the cripple you became when the life you could have had otherwise, might have been more fulfilling? Weren't you the same man you are now _**before**

_you became a cripple? Life is not meant to be a long, easy journey across green fields and paved roads. It's a dangerous ride filled with hills and valleys and hidden hazards which must be faced by everyone. _

_Where are you going, House? If you remain on the path you are travelling now, you will find illness, addiction and death. It is soon time for you to take a personal inventory. There are only two people left who still believe your existence in this world has merit. The first is your mother. The second is your best friend._

_Value them and tolerate others. The view is very different from where I am now, House. Don't close your eyes to the possibilities. ALL the possibilities …_

_You see, James Wilson almost chose me when in reality he should have chosen you …_

oooooooo

Baxter raised his head from where he'd been snoozing on the floor beside the recliner. He was instantly alert when he heard House moan softly and shift his position in the chair. When House let his arm slide off the arm of the recliner, Baxter was at his side, prancing, cold wet nose sniffing at the fingers of the dangling hand.

House startled awake and shook his hand away from the feeling of cold wetness. He sat up more quickly than he intended, and his leg retaliated.

"Ow! Fuck!"

Both hands went to his thigh, gripping tightly as a spasm began; lightly at first, then increasing in intensity and strength. He bent forward as the chair slammed to an upright position. His eyes filled with tears and soon he heard himself keening in response to the agony as another tremor rocked him. He listened to himself in an abstract manner and interpreted the sound as a spring stretched to the end of its tolerance, threatening to snap if steps weren't taken to alleviate it. Shaking like a leaf, he dug into his pocket for the Vicodin bottle and swallowed three of them dry. Then he grabbed the leg again and thrust both thumbs deeply and directly into the rigid scar tissue.

Pain fighting pain. He was a masochist. His face twisted into a grimace and his teeth ground together producing a faint disagreeable sound. Rocking back and forth, he could easily bring himself to full sexual arousal this way. Pain and pleasure. Pleasure and pain. Bread and butter. Coke and Pepsi. Shit and damnation …

His eyes darted around the living room. Was The Colonel backing up for another return? His arrival was usually predicated with severe leg pain. Baxter sat before him, head tilted curiously,

Tail sweeping the area rug ...

No! He would not do this. The Vicodin must surely take effect soon. Gradually he loosened the pressure of his thumbs to the scar. The spasm was abating. He could feel his rapid heart rate decelerating and his breathing returning to normal. His jaw ached when he opened his mouth to reduce the pressure there. He took a deep breath … as deep as he could … and released it through his mouth. He touched the back of his hand to his forehead and was not surprised that it came away soaking wet. The Vicodin was kicking in and he was becoming as limp as a piece of string.

House looked over at Baxter, standing across from him now with tail wagging and tongue lolling. The dog wanted to go out, and had no clue that the man next to him had been _**this close**_to passing out cold. House was still rubbing his leg, knowing there was not a chance in hell that he would be stable enough to walk across to the back door to let the mutt outside.

"Sorry, Buddy," he said with a stiff attempt at laughter. "Just can't do it this time. You have to hold it 'til those other two morons …"

That quickly he was leaning backward again in the recliner. His body was slack, pain gone, existing in a deep limbo that felt like floating down a warm meadow stream in a big rubber inner tube.

Solemnly House aimed his thoughts back at Amber Volakis, wherever she might be:

_I hear you. I don't know how to answer. I have no dreams, but if you're talking about nightmares, I have plenty of those. That's not what you're looking for though, is it? _

_I'm a doctor, yeah, and from what I hear, I'm kind of famous in some circles. I don't take the time to check it out much. My old man would have called it 'ego' … _

_I feel a lot like the 'token-cripple' sometimes … you know … like back in the seventies the only black guy in a bunch of all-whites was called the 'token black'. Except that the token black guy never got any pity from anybody just because he happened to be black. _

_Me? … I get lots of: 'Here, fella, take my seat, I'll stand'… stuff that I want to shove up their asses. I never asked for their damn pity, so let it alone! But they don't. Nobody wants to be criticized because they weren't nicey-nice to the cripple. So the cripple … me … turns into an ass, and all the Goody Two-Shoes … you … go away and the cripple gets to take a deep breath again … it works for me … every day._

_Right now I'm still trying to get my head around the fact that I have a sister … and a brother, come to think of it. The crazy weird thing is that my __**mother **__doesn't know I have a sister and a brother, and my sister and brother don't know __**they**__ have a big brother, and … oh shit … it's just too complicated. _

_My old man knew from the time he found out about me that he wasn't my real father. For my whole life he kept his mouth shut about it because I think he really loved my mother in some kind of a screwed-up fashion. He didn't want her to freak out because __**she**__ found out that __**he**__ found out she screwed somebody else while he was off on TDY … and probably porking every woman on the base ... _

_This doesn't even make sense. The more I think about it, the worse it gets. _

_/_

In the air around him, House could hear the sound of contemptuous laughter. Middle to low-pitched female voice. Amber was mocking him in that dreamlike, provocative and sexy manner

she'd always assumed."You make me laugh, House. Your life story sounds like 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde'."

House's eyes were unfocused. Everything around him was a blur of nauseating motion, dipping and weaving with each breath. He blinked and concentrated. Over in the far corner, above the television with its bright screen, now silent, but still tuned to Modern Marvels; between wall and ceiling, hovering like a bright wraith, he recognized the woman he'd seen in Target, and again at Country Cupboard. Amber Volakis, Wilson's dead girlfriend; the same woman who had stood on his mother's front sidewalk in his dream …

"What do you want from me, Amber?" His own voice sounded dream-like also.

"What do I want?" She was laughing again. Long and low. "The question here, is: what do YOU want? Tell me more, House … and don't skip on the details."

He glared malevolently, but he was powerless. He began again, giving what she'd asked for.

/

_When I'm twelve years old, I read this book on genetics, and that's when I discover that my old man __**isn't**__ my old man, and the shit hits the fan, because I can't keep my big fat mouth shut when I should have. I spill everything I know … and it gets worse from there. I was an idiot and I wouldn't listen to him, and every time I screwed up, his punishments got progressively_

_inventive. He made me sleep out back in cold weather, he made me sit in a bathtub full of ice water, and he made me smoke a pack of cigarettes one right after another. _

_As soon as I was old enough, I got the hell out of there. Went to college and med school, played in a blues band, interned, did a residency, specialized, got hired at a good hospital, got my own department. Got fucking crippled …_

_Then the old man croaked. Since then I've found out some things that made me look at stuff a little differently. Reluctantly, but differently. He did right by my mom. He never, ever opened his mouth to her about being sterile. He never said a damn word that he knew she screwed his best friend. He never said a word about my being someone else's kid. Not until I rubbed his face in the shit I was learning about DNA research, and I told him he couldn't possibly be my father. _

_He did tell me later though, that he was grateful I never told Mom what I knew about the whole sordid business, and he thanked me for that. Which surprised the crap out of me._

_But I hurt him back then. Bad. He and I were never the same again. I hated his guts and he hated mine … I think … and we never even stayed in the same room with each other if we could help it. My mom didn't get it. She just thought we were too much alike to get along with one another. _

_I found out she was pretty much right before it was too late. Dad didn't. When he died, his secret died with him. Mom might find out about all this someday, but it won't be from me. _

_For all intents and purposes, I'm better off alone. I bring misery and trouble to everyone that cares about me. I was well on the way to being that person a long time before the damned leg thing happened. The leg only revved it up a notch. I'm a misanthrope and a loner and the two are indivisible from one another. _

_When I'm not at the hospital, I hole up at home like a hermit. I sit in front of the TV and nurse my wounds where nobody can see me if I can't keep from bawling with pain and making a total fool of myself writhing around on the couch in my underwear. It's not a great life, but it's my life, and I wouldn't want anyone else to be a party to it. _

_I take too many pills, drink too much booze, shoot up too much morphine. But it hurts. It hurts and sometimes I can't walk. It hurts so damn bad that I want to just stick a gun in my mouth and _

_pull the trigger. But I'm too much of a coward to do that. One of these days I'll end up in _

_drug rehab. Or in a mental hospital. Or pushing up daisies. I think I mentioned some of this _

_stuff before, didn't I?_

_Whatever you meant about Wilson choosing me instead of you doesn't make a whole lot of sense either. The only reason he sticks with me is he's too much of a wuss to walk out on me, knowing I have nobody else. _

_Only thing is … I'd like to be rid of him. I've tried a hundred different ways, but he always comes back. Like a boomerang. I don't know what more I can do that doesn't include setting off a stick of dynamite under his ass._

_I don't know what the hell the answer is … marry him, I guess … _

_Is that what you wanted to know? Wanted me to say?_

_Now will you go the hell away and let me alone … ?_

_/ _

The image of Amber Volakis began to shimmer and slowly fade away.

She did not answer or give any indication she had even heard a single word he'd said ….

ooooooooooo

10


	41. Chapter 41

ROAD RAGE

Chapter #41

"Gilding the Lily"

Friday afternoon, late

January 23, 2009

They came upstairs from the basement about 4:30. That was the first trip. Each lugged a basket of clean laundry that was piled so high they could barely see over the tops. "Try not

to trip and break your neck, dear," said Blythe breathlessly as she tripped on the last step up.

Wilson shoved his basket against her back in an effort to steady her. They were both laughing.

"I'll give it my best shot," he said sarcastically. "You okay?"

She giggled. "Yeah."

The first two baskets were loaded with House and Wilson's clothing from the past week, clean sheets for their beds and fresh towels for their bath. They walked out of the spare bedroom, across the hallway and into the bedroom that Wilson shared with House. "Let's just set them down in here for now and go get the last two baskets," Wilson said. "I'm sick of looking at laundry, and my ears are still ringing from the roar of those machines. I don't see how you stand it every week."

She giggled like a girl. "Well … for one thing, I don't stay down there until the whole wash is finished like we did today. And I don't use a third as much laundry in a week that you two do.

I get the machines going and come back upstairs between loads. Once and done"

"Oh." Wilson made a face like he should have figured that out by himself.

"I'm going to miss both of you, you know. I'll miss you terribly when you leave tomorrow …"

"I know, and we'll miss you too. It's been a good trip in spite of some of the difficulties. You and your son had a couple of good talks, didn't you? I hope you both understand each other a little better now."

"I think we do. We both have many things to think about."

They recrossed the hall into the spare room and returned to the basement for the last two baskets. These weren't piled as high as the first two, and they had no trouble coming up the steps. Wilson was glad they'd had the time to exchange ideas and information. He was also

pleased he had explained a good part of House's situation to Blythe in language she could readily assimilate as a mother who cared deeply for her strange adult son. In spite of the noisy washer and dryer in the cavernous basement, they'd had a very good conversation. He'd found it quite difficult to speak freely without giving away the things he knew House didn't wish to divulge. Ever! He did feel assured though, that he'd comported himself politely and with discretion.

They were getting hungry, and so they plopped the last two wash baskets at the far end of the kitchen near the front stairway. Blythe let the prancing dog outside to do his business, and

they both looked across at the recliner and Gregg House with expressions of bewilderment

and puzzled affection. The TV rambled on, but House was not watching.

He was canted to the left side of the old chair, his head resting at an oblique angle. His hair

was matted and spikey with evaporating sweat. House's left arm hung over the arm of the recliner to the point that his fingers lay curled on the floor. The foot on his bad side was shoeless; the leg bent at the knee and his right hand lay cupped over the scar defensively.

Even in sleep, as usual, his instincts dictated that he protect it. He appeared to be sound asleep.

In his lap, the bottle of Vicodin lay open, and Wilson could see at least two of the pills had fallen out onto the seat of the chair. With a warning look over his shoulder to Blythe who hovered anxiously, James walked across the living room and knelt at his friend's side. The remote lay abandoned on the floor beside an empty can of beer, and Wilson turned the TV off.

A touch on the shoulder was enough to rouse him. House hitched upward, startled. His fingers closed tighter on his thigh and he squinted into the glare of the kitchen light like a cranky child awakened from a dream.

"Unhh … Wilson. Mom. Laundry done? Guess I fell asleep. What time is it?"

Wilson straightened and quickly lifted his hand away from House's shoulder. "About five, I think. Wash is finished, and we're hungry. How about you?" He stood up with the remote

and the empty beer can in his hand, satisfied that he had correctly assessed what had probably transpired while they were otherwise occupied. He would not mention it now unless it turned out that House was in distress. He handed House the remote and turned around to enter the kitchen.

"You spilled some pills in your lap," he said quietly over his shoulder. "You might want to pick 'em up before you come out ..."

House looked after him sheepishly. Wilson had easily pieced together what happened while he and Blythe were in the basement. Gregg located the open vial wedged under his leg, plus three spilled pills trapped between his legs and against the crotch of his blue jeans. He scooped them up quickly and shoved the recliner to an upright position. The lid was on the floor, along with his cane and his other shoe.

House retrieved all three items in one motion, endeavoring to be as inconspicuous as possible. He shoved the pills into his pocket, leaned the cane against the chair and loosened the laces of the fancy sneaker, dropping it on the floor in front of him. He stood quickly and shoved his foot into the unlaced shoe. Success. His foot was swollen a bit, but there were no fire alarms going off in his leg. Perhaps he could make it through the rest of the evening without having to answer too many questions. He was unbelievably grateful that Wilson had opted to keep his big mouth shut.

From the kitchen, Blythe watched his cautious approach with a smile on her face. "Your hair looks like someone set off a stick of dynamite in it, dear. You must have had a _really _good nap." She set a loaf of bread and a plate of cold cuts on the island and approached her tall, lanky son with open arms. She was surprised and pleased that he smiled in a shy manner and enfolded her in a very warm … for him … embrace with a gentle squeeze.

She wasn't the only one who was surprised. Wilson's jaw dropped and his eyes widened. He lowered his head, concealing his amazement, and said nothing. He did not, however, miss the fact that House's gut clenched into solid rock and his body language changed abruptly when his mother touched him. He was still wary of anyone's hands upon his body. Wilson could fully understand that, and the reasons why.

"I was telling James a while ago that I'll miss you both very much when you leave tomorrow. It's going to be awfully quiet around here." She stood on tip toe and kissed him on the cheek. "I love you, Gregg … and I'm very proud to be your mother."

"Jeez, Mom … you're making me all red in the face. You're ruining my reputation. Wilson is going to expect me to be nice to him for at least a week …"

Wilson snorted and met House's eyes with his own behind Blythe's back. The glance they exchanged perplexed him somewhat.

Gregg House released himself from his mother's embrace and took a step back. He brought

his hands up to cup her cheeks between his two warm palms as his cane slid up his arm and he half-stepped involuntarily at the twinge that touched his leg at the same time. He grimaced slightly, but did not let go. "I love you too, Mom. I always have, and I'm sorry it's been so long since I told you so."

"Well, you told me now." She could not help wanting more of the touch of his hands, but fully understanding his reluctance to show too much emotion, even to his own family.

Supper consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup from cans; all hot and filling and greasy and calorie-contaminated. They decided to forego the coffee in favor of tall glasses of lemony iced tea, and for dessert, cherry jello implanted with fruit cocktail and sliced bananas.

House sat at the table nursing his iced tea and wishing it were something much stronger. His leg tingled and pinged a warning that things could become more insistent soon. He dug in his pants pocket for the Vicodin and sneaked two of them while Wilson and his mother loaded the dishwasher and started the cycle.

Conversation rambled comfortably like a winding country road from topic to topic, lingering longer on a discussion of Neela Reichenbach's visit. Blythe recalled a few incidents from House's childhood that included the Stratton kids and the Bishop kids, and how the Marine Corps always assigned the three families to the same areas of the country … and the world, for that matter …

… and House bowed his head until it almost touched his knuckles as he remembered aloud that

the four Bishop boys and Neela and Barry Stratton should probably have been his best friends during his formative years. But they weren't. The only role they ever played in his life was the sad fact that they were always there. The true friends he enlisted when they arrived on distant shores and foreign lands were those who challenged him intellectually … and the "B&S Gang" just wasn't it.

"The Bishops and the Strattons were good kids, I guess, even though Walt was never around, and Gil was a total asshole, just like I always thought Dad was … but they weren't the brightest bulbs in the box and the seven of us just never came up with anything in common. Then when we were older and moved around even more … and I stopped trying to make friends … the Bishops and the Strattons went their way and I went mine. Never the twain did meet. I never said much about it, because what would have been the use?"

Blythe placed her hand on his upper arm and squeezed gently. "I didn't know that, dear. I really didn't. I guess I thought that it was kind of like 'us against the world' everywhere we went. I knew that you were a lonely child, always with a book in your hands unless you were out somewhere playing sports. I didn't know how you really felt because you never wanted to talk, and I was remiss because I never asked."

Wilson sat quietly, observing. He had seen House's stomach clench when his mother embraced him; just as his forearm was clenched now. House's fingers were curled tightly into a white-knuckled fist below the bicep where Blythe's hand still rested. Wilson wished sadly that this haunted man could allow himself a few moments of freedom once in a while, and gradually learn to trust again.

"You didn't know, Mom," Gregg was saying. "'cause I wasn't talking. When you don't get any input from your own kid, I guess you have to just stand by in case he needs you, and hope that in adulthood things will improve for you both. It just took you and me a little longer than most.

"Thinking back to something you said when Wilson and I first got here: that you wished I hadn't waited so long to come to Lexington … that I might've chosen to come home when Dad was still alive. I was stubborn and stupid and suspicious and … I'm sorry. I just wanted you to know.

"The war is over, Mom. You were right about that too."

oooooooo

There wasn't much left to say. They were silent for extended moments. House finished playing with his iced tea glass and drained it. He began to move restlessly in his chair and Wilson studied the stubbled face with unasked questions. Finally: "Everything okay?"

House's eyebrows shot up and a corner of his mouth followed, making him look like a grizzled elf. "I'm _fine_!" No sarcasm, no sexual jibes. Wilson stared.

"You know," Gregg went on, "I was thinking about Neela and her impromptu visit yesterday."

Blythe frowned. "Hrumph! It wasn't 'impromptu', Gregg, not by a long shot."

He looked back at her with a slight frown. _Hmmm … so Mom wasn't fooled either … _Curiosity got the better of him. "What do you mean?"

"Gregory, are you serious? I already have a set of those old pictures in a box upstairs. Coe gave them to us years ago. Neela was on a fishing expedition. Or Gil was. Probably Gil's idea."

House threw back his head and laughed out loud. His Adam's apple bounced like a ping pong ball. The sound was so unexpected that the other two gaped with astonishment. He enjoyed their expressions. "You two look like fish out of water."

"I haven't heard you laugh like that in ten years!" Wilson shot back.

"Yeah, well I still remember how, and today there's a reason.

"Just so you both know, I almost laughed in Neela's face yesterday. She said her dad saw your car here, and I was willing to bet then that he was the one who dug out those pictures and sent her over here with them, figuring we'd have forgotten about them. I bet Mom thinks so too." His grin widened when she nodded her head back at him. "Military guys are all the same: send somebody else to do your dirty work.

"I have to give Neela credit though. She didn't try to make me feel like a freak, and she didn't give me any stupid advice about pain management. I hope they're all satisfied that I'm still breathing and still upright and walking around. One never knows for sure unless one sticks one's nose into another's business. You'll probably hear from one of them soon, Mom."

Blythe smiled at him and nodded her head in agreement. "The same thing occurred to me, Gregg. Funny … I don't think Neela has ever been in this house before. She tried to hide it, but I caught her looking around, sizing up the place."

House pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. One test more, and then done: "Did either of you notice how much she resembles Trigger? Long nose, big ears, forelock hanging in her eyes …"

The silence was momentary. Blythe nodded. Her eyes were sparkling when she looked back at her son and grinned widely. "Now that you mention it …"

Wilson's expression was a study in joyful shock: "Jesus, House!"

"Just kidding …" was the comeback.

But they both knew he wasn't …

oooooooo

When Wilson went to the refrigerator to refill their iced tea glasses, House watched him with an expression of sly intent. Blythe had slipped off somewhere; they knew not where. She had gone to the back door to let Baxter in and then disappeared. They assumed to the 'little girls' room'.

Five minutes later she appeared at the bottom of the stairs. In her arms lay a very long canvas bag and a very old wooden cigar box. She placed the unwieldy bag carefully on the surface of the island and set the box down beside it.

Blythe opened the lid of the cigar box first. Its interior was filled with old military interoffice memos dated from the 1960s. Placed inside on top of the litter and scraps of paper was a Marine issue M1905 pistol. It was gun-metal gray with a brown stock, and looked as though it was fresh off the production line. "This is John's service pistol," she said. "It's never been fired."

House and Wilson moved closer and House picked it up, balanced it laterally in the palm of his hand. The gun was sleek and satin finished. He turned it over reverently and placed it back in atop the scatter of old paper.

Blythe was already sliding the canvas carrier off the weapons that had been placed inside it.

The M16 assault rifle had definitely been well used. There were wear marks on the stock and the barrel. Marksmanship reminders, no doubt.

When she pulled the sheath the rest of the way and revealed the Mameluke USMC Officer's 32" sword, beautifully engraved with John House's name and rank, there were low sounds of manly awe. She picked the weapon up carefully and placed it in Gregg House's hands.

"All yours," she said.

"He wanted you to have them. He did love you, Gregg. He surely did."

"Wow!" Was all he could manage around the lump that had quickly formed in his throat.

oooooooooooo

7


	42. Chapter 42

ROAD RAGE

Chapter #42

"Getting the Hell Out of Dodge"

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Early afternoon

The skies over Lexington were dull and gray and full of dark, churning rain clouds. Even at 8:30 a.m. when they turned up in the kitchen for breakfast, lights were turned on to lift the gloom.

Baxter went outside, did his business with dispatch and scratched at the door quickly to be let back in. The outer hairs of his coat were damp from the mist that was falling. Wilson petted Bax's head, and when he withdrew his hand it was wet. He filled the food and water bowls and put them in the customary place across the room, and then returned to the sink to wash his hands.

House settled himself at the kitchen table and hung his cane on the back of the chair. He was quiet this morning, pretty much as usual. He had taken his meds before making his way down the hallway, so there was no fumbling with the pill vial or the rattle that announced his habit of shaking it loudly before spilling the dose into the palm of his hand.

Blythe had a good case of the fumbles while she made coffee, dropping the measuring spoon twice and spilling a small trail of coffee grounds on the counter when she poured them out of the grinder into the pot. After the second mishap, she cursed unmistakably under her breath, which broke the silence with teasing laughter.

There had been an atmosphere of cautious tension in the house up until that point that closely matched the dreariness outside. Conversation was sparse and their attention returned, during awkward conversational lapses, to the old military weapons that still lay untended at the end of the bar.

When Blythe stage-whispered: "Shit!" at the spilled coffee, Wilson tossed her the dishrag to clean it up and said sarcastically, "Couldn't have put it better myself!"

… which brought a horselaugh from House.

The kitchen light gleamed in bright reflection off the polished blade and hilt of the ceremonial sword, and House found himself staring in admiration at its luxurious precision and beauty of workmanship. It reminded him of something out of an Indiana Jones movie that might have been left with a treasure trove of pilfered pirate loot deep in an underground cavern and surrounded by spider webs and ancient skulls. Not part of the modern paraphernalia of

a modern United States Marine. It all seemed curious and unfamiliar to him, and not at all

a part of what he remembered of his so-called father.

House could not recall ever having seen the sword before, and he wondered why. Due to the vagabond lives of many military families, they did not often stay in one place long enough to accumulate anything that even resembled 'relics' in the attic. As a kid, however, House had been an inquisitive sort, and usually familiarized himself with every inch of a house once they moved in. But he'd never come across the sword.

He understood perfectly why he wasn't familiar with the firearms. John had probably always kept them in a locker located somewhere on whatever base he'd been assigned to. One didn't keep firearms in the house when one had a precocious kid like Gregg around … unless it was kept in a hidden strongbox under lock and key.

House wasn't sure he had any desire to possess these bizarre mementos, mainly because they shouted 'Marine Corps' … 'Military' … 'Blackjack House' … and he still wasn't certain whether

he had completely resolved the old conflict with his father in his own mind. But he'd always understood the meaning of honor. His mom said that the old man wanted him to have them, and she wouldn't lie about something like that. He did not know whether he should feel angry or proud or something inbetween about the inheritance, such as it was. At the moment though, all he felt was empty and blah.

oooooooo

Wilson toasted English muffins while the coffee perked along, noting that they should not eat a heavy meal and then get on the road. He was hoping to make it back to the Hotel Marriot near Morgantown, West Virginia and stop there again for the night. It would be nice to have the handicap-accessible room again … #127 … should they be so lucky.

Later, while Wilson disappeared into the bedroom to repack their overnighters and gather

the empty laundry baskets, Blythe started another pot of coffee … with no spills this time.

House hauled himself out of the chair and began to gather their plates and utensils from the table.

Blythe watched him in fascination as he maneuvered, caneless, but with a poignant grace of movement around the kitchen. He carried everything one-handed and leaned smoothly on

the counters for support and balance. She did not annoy him with solicitous comments, but allowed him to do whatever he could to help, and was grateful that he finally felt comfortable enough to allow her to see him in his true wounded reality.

Gregg was highly meticulous and efficient in his cleanup efforts, and she was surprised that he did everything quickly and with precision. As a teenager and young adult he had been somewhat of a slob, tossing clothing on the floor, towels in the bathroom and every trash can full to overflowing. She wondered if he was doing this to impress her. If so, it was working. He reminded her a lot of John, but she would rather have been shot at close range than tell him that.

Wilson returned to the kitchen close to noon. The overnighters were bulging at the seams and he set them close to the back door where they stood like ramparts before a battle. "I don't know why it is," he groused, "that suitcases always look like you've stolen the family silverware when it's time to leave, but were not like that when you arrived …"

"Maybe …" House said nastily, "it's because you stayed up all night last night stealing the family silverware." He leaned on the kitchen island, resting his leg and watched as Wilson heaped their coats on top of the suitcases and turned to him with fists on hips.

Wilson rounded on his accuser and jammed both fists onto his hips. "Shut your pie hole!" He said with a grin.

They sat down at the table for some final sentiments before parting. House and Wilson exchanged glances when Blythe was looking elsewhere As usual their eyes confirmed similar thoughts. They had each drawn something valuable from this visit, but also, they were very glad to be on their way home.

Zero hour approached and they knew that it could turn clumsy if they dared go past it. There

was an unspoken cutoff point urging them strongly that it was time to be moving.

Wilson went out to the car with their overnighters first, dragging the heavy things in each hand. Blythe lightened the moment by admonishing him to take good care of the family silverware.

He raised an eyebrow and made a face at her.

When he returned for the service weapons that were part of Blackjack House's legacy, House already had them back in the canvas case with the old cigar box box containing the pistol, placed on top.

An addition had been made. John's white dress cover with the shiny black brim and gaudy gold accouterments that had sat on his coffin at the viewing, rested there also, encased in a large, transparent plastic bag. "I have no use for it," Blythe insisted. "It's more fitting that it go to his son."

Brown eyes touched blue again with a sense of irony, and House's moist lids closed very slowly in a sign of resignation. "I'll keep it for you, Mom, in case you ever want it back."

"I doubt it, dear. I have all I need of him … here." She laid her closed fist over her heart, and House had to look pointedly in a different direction to keep from laughing in her face. It was true that he had valued the trip and the time to finally let his mom know that he really did love and cherish her … but this was … just a little too fucking much.

He was, however, an award-winning actor, and she did not notice.

oooooooo

Beside the car, House bent down to scratch Baxter behind the ears and tease the dog sarcastically: "If you're ever in New Jersey, Daddy-O, look me up. Okay?"

Baxter sneezed all over House's hand and then shook himself as though getting rid of something putrid.

Only House heard what The Colonel said in return: _"Nah … I don't think so. You and I were never meant to be buddies … but for what it's worth, I got a real kick out of busting your ass _

_one last time. Take care of yourself son … Semper Fi!"_

House snorted and wiped his hand on the seat of his jeans. "Hoo Rah, Dad …" He turned

and hung his cane on his arm, then hugged his mother quickly before getting in the car.

oooooooo

They pulled out of the driveway at 1:30 p.m. precisely, and turned in the direction of downtown Lexington.

Wilson looked in the rearview mirror and saw Blythe with the dog at her side, waving from the driveway.

"Roll your window down and wave," he said. "Hurry, before she's out of sight!"

House scrolled down his window and lifted his arm as high as it would reach. He waved.

"Okay, I did it. Now, let's get the hell out of Dodge …"

oooooooooooo

5


	43. Chapter 43

ROAD RAGE

Chapter #43

"Mental Retreat"

Saturday night

At the Marriot:

Late

Room #127 at the Morgantown Marriot was not available, probably because it was so late when House and Wilson finally arrived. It was almost midnight when they entered the lobby, cold and miserable and tired to the bone. Travel on the interstate had been a hassle from the time they'd left Lexington and were able to accelerate cautiously to road speeds. Wind and rain in icy sheets buffeted Wilson's Volvo like a sparrow in a hurricane, making the driving difficult and the tension in both driver and passenger almost palpable.

House followed Wilson inside the expansive lobby of the big motel, shaking rain water off

his jacket and muttering something about "Oh yeah … this is the place with all the damn 'amenities' …"

Wilson walked ahead of him up to the desk. The place was mostly deserted; only a few stragglers wandering about. Probably, Wilson thought, on their way back to their rooms

from the bar-restaurant area that opened off the short hallway. Lights were turned low in

the registry cubicles and there was only one clerk on duty. Another man sat catnapping on

a chair in a dark corner. He risked opening an eye, then closed it again.

"Can I help you?" The first guy asked.

"We stayed here a week ago," Wilson said. "We were in Room 127, the one back the hallway with handicap accommodations. Is that room available by any chance?"

The man checked his bookings and shortly shook his head. "Sorry, sir. That one's occupied tonight. We do have another HC room on the second floor … elevator access, of course. Will that do?"

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief and looked over his shoulder at House, who sat stiff as a board on one of the lobby sofas, twirling his cane impatiently. "That'll be fine. We'd like it for two nights. Double occupancy, right?"

"Yessir," the man said. "Full amenities." He reached under the counter and retrieved a plastic door card which he pushed across the counter to Wilson. Wilson exchanged the door card for his credit card. One swipe and they were in.

The short elevator ride hardly seemed worth the effort, but House would not have made it

up any amount of steps. He was pale and breathing in short, labored gasps by the time they arrived at the room. Wilson knew his friend had about had it. "Stay put," he said, even as House shouldered out of his coat and flopped on the bed. "Catch your breath, take your meds and settle in while I go out for our luggage and park the car."

"Whatever …" House was beyond caring and did not even look up when the door closed again behind Wilson. He kicked out of his shoes and let them drop where they would. He swallowed two Vicodin and then squirmed out of his jeans, letting them slide over the edge of the bed in a heap, partly covering the shoes. He couldn't have cared less. He was uncomfortable and achy, and his butt and hip were sore from hours in the car as it was buffeted by wind and rain.

House turned onto his left side and drew his legs close to his body. He reached behind his

back with his right hand and pulled the quilted bedspread haphazardly around himself. He

then did the same with the other side until he was wrapped up inside a makeshift cocoon.

His right hand reached down immediately to cover the scar. It wasn't the best arrangement, but he was too worn out to do it any better. After a few minutes he had warmed up enough that by the time Wilson came back with the overnighters, he was dead asleep and snoring.

Wilson dropped the suitcases just inside the door and closed it behind him. Their room was almost pitch dark after the bright lights along the corridor. There was a 'dimmer' light built into the regular switch on the wall and he pressed it cautiously. Nice! At once the room came back to life with a warm glow.

Wilson removed his coat and looked around. He hadn't had the chance to do so awhile ago; he just wanted to get their bags out of the car and park somewhere away from the handicap zone out front. He was wet and dripping and cold. He needed to get out of his damp clothing, check on House and get a hot shower, in that order. He dragged the overnighters across the room and stood them both against the opposite wall. He knew there would be complimentary terry cloth robes in the bath, and one of those ought to be nice and soft to sleep in. To hell with digging night clothing out of those heavy bags. Not tonight. Tomorrow.

He shed jeans and sport shirt, socks and shoes, and his skin warmed immediately. Picking up the soggy things with thumb and forefinger, he laid them across the back of one of the side chairs. In nothing but boxer briefs and tee shirt, Wilson walked over and sat down on the bed opposite House, wriggling his toes happily in the feathery carpet. He was surprised that such carpet had been installed in a handicap room, but the feel was so luxurious that he didn't dwell on it.

The arrangement of the room looked very much like the one at Blythe's: two beds, one dresser, two chairs and a table with a lamp between the beds. He guessed he would look around a little more when it was daylight …

Wilson was tired and sore across the shoulders. His forearms hurt from battling the steering wheel for hours in the storm. He reached up with his right hand and rubbed at the back of his neck in an attempt to ease another ache there. He wondered how his friend was faring. The gentle buzz saw across the room told him House hadn't moved a muscle since he'd come back from parking the car and lugging the suitcases inside.

Wilson groaned and pushed himself up from the edge of the bed; padded silently across to the other side of the room. House's jeans and shoes lay in a mound on the floor, and Wilson, being Wilson, couldn't _not _pick them up. He placed everything on the closest chair and then moved nearer to the other man's side. House was deeply asleep. Wilson grinned and shook his head.

The queen-size bedspread was doing double duty tonight; serving as both bottom sheet and blanket. With both sides pulled up over his lanky body and the red tee shirt and greying head poking out from the middle, House resembled a big hamburger taco smothered in chili sauce and onions. Wilson smiled at the thought. He reached down and unfolded the bed's extra blanket and placed it gently across his friend's body. The snoring went on uninterrupted.

Wilson went into the bathroom and eased the door shut.

oooooooo

_Gregory House was in a dream world. Everything outside the center was unstable and fading away. Nothing existed beyond the immediate here and now. He groaned with futility. He was wearing his black leather bike jacket and torn, filthy jeans. He had no cane and his right leg was on fire. His head hurt, and when he reached up to touch the occipital region, his fingers came away bloodied. He was suddenly aware of forward movement …_

_Here we go again._

_He was on a bus. A Princeton Citibus; not an over-the-road cruiser with padded seats that reclined and allowed for catnaps and drinks with straws. This bus was the utilitarian variety with hard plastic benches, shiny chrome grip rails and leaf springs that tumbled your insides around like they were in a blender. He was sitting on an aisle seat near the back, close to the demarcation line between diesel fumes and breathable air. The bus was jolting along like its _

_lug nuts weren't tightened down; cruising the familiar streets of home. City lights glittered past through the bus's windows, but he couldn't actually see the city. It was the interior of the old vehicle that had given him his bearings._

_Across the aisle sat the only other passenger. Identity obvious. He stared at her coldly and she stared back with that seductive-elusive half smile she'd worn so often with him while she was still alive and in his employ. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders, and the coat she wore was the same one she was wearing when he had first discovered she'd been dating Wilson. _

_He was pissed off all over again._

_He noticed that she was whole and gorgeous and uninjured, while he was sitting across from her, miserable, bleeding and filthy and feeling like his brains had been scrambled. House decided he would not be the first to speak. Whatever was in her mind had to have been plumbed from deep within his own. _

_Psychology wasn't his specialty by any means, but he knew enough to be dangerous. He would wait until she stated her case and then rebuff her with a barrage of inane rhetoric. The bubble would burst and she would be gone once and for all and he would awaken and get back to the world of his own choosing._

_They sat staring at each other while the rattletrap bus rolled on. Amber was relaxed and beautiful with a glow about her that was other-worldly; apparently comfortable with her current situation. Her hands were crossed in her lap and she continued to stare at him with _

_the same smile that had always battered House's sensibilities like a hit-and-miss engine._

_House could not sit still much longer. The diamond drill of his eyes pierced the air like a bolt of static electricity and his pain was escalating. His head pounded and he could feel gobbets of his own blood dripping onto his collar and soaking the tee shirt beneath his jacket. His cane was gone, although he certainly didn't need it sitting down. But its constant presence had always been a source of stability and comfort when he had it in his hands or close by. Now, however, his thigh was throwing sparks of torture that made the area of the missing muscle pulsate visibly. Each spike threatened to send him crashing to the deck, screaming like a girl. Still, he held stubbornly to the spot, gasping with pain, but still glaring at Amber, who didn't move._

_It was a Mexican standoff. House would not be caught dead giving in to a woman. Especially this one. So it was with a sense of profound humiliation that he was the first to cave._

"_**What do you want from me?"**__ He rasped harshly. His frown drew his eyebrows sharply together in the middle._

_Amber straightened, suddenly breaking her posture of stiff inscrutability. Her features softened. "Don't you know?"_

"_No. But I'm sure you'll be happy to tell me!"_

"_You're right … I will … so listen closely. "_

_He bristled. "I'm sick and tired of listening to you."_

_She paid no attention to him and continued: _

"_You have to get off the drugs and the pills and the booze. They're killing you. If you were clean, I wouldn't be here."_

"_If I were clean, lady … __**I … **__wouldn't be here! I have this … __**pain; you see **__… that I can't deal with any other way …"_

_She laughed sardonically. "You'd figure out a way. You were offered rehab and expert pain management. You walked out on both, so now it's up to you. No one is coming after you with offers of help. You sabotaged all that."_

"_Thanks for the advice. What else?"_

"_Let go of your father. Free him from your half-resolved feelings. You and he couldn't get it together in __**his**__ lifetime; that was obvious. But now you have another chance to get it together in __**yours!**__ He meant well, House. He was old-school military and sometimes he treated his kid like part of a platoon. But he got more things right than he got wrong. You said it yourself, you see: 'I am what I am today because of him.' Bet you're wondering how I know so much about you, right? Think about it. John and I are almost neighbors now … and add to that … I used to live with your best friend." Her smile widened until it was almost infuriating._

_House's anger cranked up another notch. He took a deep breath and let it out with a shuddering sigh. He pulled his aching body together and straightened. "Bullshit!"_

_She glared back at him, still with the half-smile. "Just take time to think about what I've told you. You won't be sorry."_

"_Well thank you for being my counselor. You got anything else?" _

_He was more conscious of the blood running down the back of his neck. His head was thumping in time with the beat of his heart and his leg pain was taking away his self-control. He had no idea what she was talking about. Nor did he care._

"_You want more? Okay, here's more. You need to give James Wilson a break. Stop treating him like a servant. You see, House, even in my present state, I still care for him. He was good to me and good for me when I was alive, but I've moved on to another plane, and he needs a better friend than you. Have you ever stopped to think about who it is that's always there for you? … listened while you bitched about the world in general? … sat patiently through every condescending accusation you piled on his head, and then practically held your hand during the times when you were blind with pain and the only thing he could do was __**be there**__? Do you not understand, House? Do you __**really **__not understand? You've had your differences, sometimes big ones. You even tried a parting of the ways and stayed away from each other for months … but he always returned to you, and you've always welcomed him home. He's always had your back, and if you think about it, you've always had his …_

"_In the meantime, House … get off the bus!"_

_And she was gone. So was the bus._

_oooooooo_

He was no longer bloody; no longer in desperate pain.

He was coming awake. Rising rapidly from deep under water; gasping for air and attempting to claw his way to the surface before he drowned and sank back to the bottom forever.

The bedspread was pulled over him from both sides and the blanket from the foot of the bed had been placed overtop. He was penned in. He could not get his hands free, and in his depleted state he could not break out of those simple restraints. His body became agitated

and desperate.

Dark, brackish water was closing over his head.

Pain and desperation overcame him and he heard his own voice wailing in panic.

oooooooo

Wilson ripped away the blanket.

House was suddenly free. He gasped for air and lay panting; looking around for the inside of the bus, double-checking that it was no longer there.

His upper body was disentangled and his arms moved freely. He was still taking mouth breaths, coming out of the terrible sensation of drowning; then looking up into deep brown eyes full of apprehension and … (Oh no!) … compassion.

Wilson hovered over him like a worried mother with a sick child. He sat hunkered on the edge of the bed, his arm across House's chest and his palm against the side of House's face. House could feel Wilson's warm fingers in his hair and he pulled away with a look of shock. Wilson's other hand was on House's right forearm and House couldn't reach down to touch his scar.

His mind jolted back to Amber and what she'd said about his friend. His eyes searched the room wildly, still trying to shake off the image of the bus. His leg was begging for medication. Was she right? Was he killing himself? Strangely, he didn't doubt that part of it.

He struggled like a wild animal … the Old Lion … attempting to leap upward and chase away

the fire. He was keening again … or was it only in his mind? Wilson held him down; pushed

his shoulders against the pillow, already soaking wet with sweat. Soft words, close to his ear, causing him to cease his struggle; causing him to attempt to hear what was being said, and

who was saying it.

"House. House! It's okay. _You're _okay. Relax. Let me hold onto you. Relax now. I'll work on your leg if you lay still long enough for me to get hold of you …"

Wilson. Wilson was doing his 'Mother Hen' thing.

Wilson had him. House's back was arched like a British foot bridge with the effort of controlling the need to thresh about. Wilson's strong fingers were at the edge of the scar, pressing into the unyielding tissue with the pads of his thumbs, pressing the surrounding flesh between his long fingers and the heels of his hands. He was falling into a distinct rhythm: squeeze … release … squeeze … and on and on until the spasming muscle began to settle down and let go. His leg slowly relaxed. House's stiff, arched back settled gradually to the surface of the bed, and he released the breath he must have been holding for nearly a minute. His face went from bright red to pink, and then to white, and the vein that had throbbed on his forehead settled back beneath the skin. He moaned with the nirvana of release and lay puffing, letting himself recover and get his bearings.

Wilson sat beside him grinning like a moron. He was scrubbing at his hands and massaging his sore forearms. House noticed that his friend was wearing a soft white terry cloth bathrobe and nothing else. The bathrobe had fallen open, the sash hanging loose. That wasn't the only thing hanging loose. Wilson's 'trappings' lay bare and unshrouded: mostly hidden by shadow and the dim light, but _there._ Wilson did not seem to notice.

House pretended he had seen nothing. It felt so damn good to not be in pain. He relaxed and slumped, even allowing Wilson to play 'Mother Hen' if he chose to.

They finally got back to bed about 4:00 a.m.

oooooooo

They spent Sunday doing nothing. They rested and talked about the week gone by, and

agreed that Wilson's insistence on making the trip was a good idea. House rested his leg and actually told Wilson 'thank you'. Wilson's mouth dropped open wide and House thought that the resulting image was hilarious.

Rain tapered off about noon, and the wind died down to less than a whisper. They turned on the TV for a weather report, and the forecast indicated clear skies the rest of the way to New Jersey. It almost looked like things were coming full circle.

Wilson reminded House to relocate his stolen drug stash to his dresser drawer when they returned home, and take that old step stool to the damn dump!

House laughed, but said nothing in return, so Wilson decided he had won that one.

They called Blythe and thanked her effusively for the pleasant week and promised to return for another one sometime in the fall. For the length of time they remained on the phone, House rolled his eyes and made goofy faces, but he knew Wilson would not put up with his crap the next time he suggested they head for Lexington. When Wilson handed him the phone, the timbre of his voice lowered to 'polite', a setting he seldom used. He spoke to his mother with a respect he hadn't known he possessed. Perhaps a few new methods of treating people with some kind of regard might be worth looking into …

They called Cuddy and told her they were on the way back. House's hip was healing nicely, thank you. They'd had a pleasant time, and they would both report for work, probably on Tuesday or Wednesday.

They channel-surfed the TV and traded insults like always, and ate meals brought in by room service. They sat on House's bed and passed shrimp and crab legs and French fries back and forth. They spilled the sauce from Chinese takeout on the sheets and thought nothing of it. They sat close to one another and neither became alarmed unnecessarily when their shoulders and elbows touched from time to time.

At night they slept in Wilson's bed because House's bed looked and smelled like a pig sty. Wilson spooned himself against House's back in the same manner he had done it at Blythe's place, and House was snoring innocently after about five minutes. Most of his leg pain seemed to have gone away.

Wilson left a hundred-dollar bill on the dresser the next morning.

oooooooo

Amber Volakis sat smugly in the back seat of Wilson's Volvo all the way to Princeton.

House ignored her in the same manner as he might have ignored an elephant, had it been standing in the middle of his living room.

oooooooooooo

9


	44. Chapter 44

ROAD RAGE

Chapter #44

"Alternate Universe"

My Place

Thursday, April 9, 2009

On the couch, nursing my damn leg

_Gregory House, M. D._

I took the day off from work today. Told Cuddy I had to go down to the Depart of Motor Vehicles to renew my license and registration because I forgot about it and they sent me a notice. It was a lie, but it's none of her damn business that everything is ganging up on me

and my leg has been feeling like it's made of lead.

Every time I turn around, there stands (or sits …) Amber Volakis with that self-satisfied smirk

on her face. I can't get rid of her and it's driving me crazy. She talks to me like she's my

mother and I'm her kid.

_Oh no ya don't kiddo … I've got a mother, and she's already got me crazy. So take a hike. Get lost. Bye bye. Good riddance._

Wilson has been so nice since we got back from Lexington that I just want to punch his lights out and leave him unconscious in a corner somewhere. He knows something is up, but he hasn't figured it out yet. He'd be grossed out if I said I've been spending days _and nights _with

his dead girlfriend. He'd probably punch _my_ lights out. It's getting harder to concentrate and harder to focus beyond the damn leg pain.

I stink like booze and I think I'm still a little plastered. I finished a fifth of Maker's Mark last night and spent the night on the couch with the heating pad. Didn't help. My Vicodin bottle

is almost empty. I need another scrip, and it's way too soon. I still have the stash in the bath, but that's for emergencies. Wilson will crap himself if I ask for another one …

I still have that: 'nobody-tells-me-what-to-do' thing that's imbedded so deeply in the basic blueprint of who I am, that I wonder if I can ever get it out.

I'm working on a particularly difficult case, and it's trying to fry my brain. There's this man and his wife; each determined to die so they can donate their organs to each other. Both of them are circling the drain and still fighting about who's going to live and who's going to die. I haven't figured it out yet … but I will. I will.

I keep seeing Amber, damn her, around every corner and skulking in the lobby and the cafeteria and my office. The kids keep looking at me like I've got two heads, and things are getting dicey. I need to do something …

Dad though … fortunately he stayed at home in Lexington … sleeping with the dog.

Foreman said he'd page me if there were any drastic changes in the case, but so far, nothing.

I finally admitted to Wilson that I've been hallucinating … and he looked at me with that puppy face he does so well. He said: "Hallucinating what?"

I told him My Dad. But it's not Dad.

I _can't_ tell him about Amber. It isn't because I don't want to hurt him. That's crap, and he'd catch on right away. I don't want to see the exasperation on his face because he'll think it's just another one of my schemes to screw him over. It's not, but I know I've cried 'wolf' so many times that he'd think it was …

For now I nurse my wounds and watch what I say and try to keep the lid on. Don't know

how well that's working. I'm a mess and the more drugs I take, the more I need, and it won't be long until things go completely out of control. I asked for it, I guess … but what the hell

am I supposed to do? Die screaming in agony?

The freak-show stuff at work is getting me down. Cases I used to breeze through like shit through a goose are getting harder, and my mind doesn't focus long enough for me to figure out the clues logically and get the job done. Every move I've made lately is being watched by _somebody. _I feel eyes boring into my back everywhere I go, and I want to curse and swear and tell them to just knock it the hell off and let me alone. Can't do that though, or they'd know for sure that I was nuts.

Certifiable!

Foreman told me yesterday to get the hell out and go home and get some rest before I end up killing someone.

Cuddy told the kids they weren't allowed to write scrips for me anymore, no matter how much I threaten … or how hard I beg.

Cameron looks at me with cow-eyes … and the expression is flat-out _pity. _I can't stand it. I won't go near her.

Chase doesn't give a shit anymore. He's a blank slate. Good for Chase.

Thirteen comes to work exactly at nine … goes home again precisely at five. She's the only one who still treats me like a human being. She and Wilson; although Wilson is beginning to lose a little ground on that one.

Taub and Kutner? Taub looks at me like I'm the idiot of the month. Kutner shrugs and makes profound statements that sound like he's a professor from Harvard … but there's a deadly gleam in his eyes that tells me he's checking me out for the funny farm. Who-the-hell knows? Screw it!

_Ahhh … my fuckin' leg!_

Right now I'm hearing a key in the lock.

Oh hell, it's only Wilson.

oooooooo

"Hey …" Wilson said.

"Hey yourself. You look like a Geek bearing gifts."

"I think that's '_Greek bearing gifts …'" _ Wilson moved the empty Maker's Mark bottle off the coffee table and set down the bag of Chinese food he'd been holding. He turned to House with a frown of concern.

"What're you doing here?" House wanted to know.

"I brought you dinner. You look like you haven't eaten in a week. I know you lied to Cuddy. You don't need a new license or registration, since you got them a month ago. There's been no change in the two people your team is treating …"

House did a slow burn. Something wasn't being said … "What else?"

Wilson sat on the coffee table and leaned forward. Their faces were very close. "Lawrence Kutner is dead, House. He killed himself this morning … or late last night. He didn't report for work and didn't answer his land line or cell phone. Hadley and Foreman went looking for him. He was in his bedroom … on the floor, half under his bed. I told Cuddy not to call you; that I'd come over this evening and tell you in person. I'm sorry."

House did not say anything right away. He was propped awkwardly on the couch, his hand,

as always, covering his thigh. The heating pad lay crumpled where it had slid onto the floor. House's dark head went down. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up again at Wilson's face, eyes suddenly red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears.

"How?"

"Gunshot wound. They found the gun."

House had his bottom lip between his teeth, his lined face a topographical map of misery. He was not weeping, but he was close.

Wilson's face was a mere three inches away, blotchy with a sympathy he couldn't hide.

House took another deep breath, and this time the tears fell. There were too many to hold inside any longer. His chin went down onto his chest. Ironically, the first thing that came to his mind was the fear that he might soon be seeing Kutner again, talking to him in the afterlife.

Wilson moved in, his arm reaching across to clasp House just behind the shoulder. Gently, but firmly, Wilson drew his friend's head forward onto his own shoulder. The front of his white work shirt was quickly saturated as House allowed himself to be comforted by this most important person in his life.

"Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?" Wilson whispered. "It had to be me who told you about Kutner. I knew you could face it in the cold light of day, but with the way your life has been going lately, why should you have to?"

"What do you mean?" House pulled away and sat back, hissing in pain as his leg began to cramp again.

"I don't mean _anything," _Wilson whispered. "Except that I care about you in every way possible whether you believe it or not, and I didn't want you hearing about this from anyone else, and have to use your 'I-don't-give-a-shit' attitude until you could sneak out of there. This way you didn't have to."

"Do you think I'm weak?"

"No, House. Anything but. But you need a break. I can't let you end up like Kutner. I don't know what's been going on with you lately, but I know _something _is. If you choose not to tell me, that's okay. I just wanted you to be able to get used to what happened to him before you have to listen to all the nasty speculation that's going to breed like Ebola virus around that hospital."

House took a deep breath and pulled away from his strangle hold on Wilson. Gingerly he sat up. "What made him do it? Why would he kill himself? He had the makings of a good doctor. I never saw it coming, did you? Never saw it …"

"No, House. No one did. It took us all by surprise, and we were shocked. I'm sure there'll be an inquiry. For now, have something to eat and if you want to talk about it, then we will. If not, I guess it can wait. He's not going anywhere …"

oooooooo

It wasn't like they had much of an appetite. The food was spicy and delicious; kept piping hot in the insulated containers. But the ritual of eating seemed almost disrespectful in light of Dr. Kutner's body laying cold and still in the hospital's morgue.

"Sorry, Wilson," House said finally. "I just don't have much of an appetite. Thanks anyway."

"Me either," Wilson agreed.

As he sat there, he became aware of House's body suddenly stiffening. The blue eyes widened, and House's full attention riveted on the baby grand piano in the corner across the room.

"House?" He said, "what are you looking at?"

House continued to stare as his forehead broke out in cold sweat and tears once again threatened to break through the iron grid of his control. House was at the end of his rope.

Vibrato: searching for the pitch. No bass, all treble clef; the tinkling sound of tiny bells. Treble clef on the baby grand. Then the voice. Unmistakable. Feminine. Familiar, wavery, not quite on key …

"_Enjoy yourself … it's later than you think …"_

Amber Volakis in the style of Kenny Gardner.

"_Amber!"_

He must have spoken her name out loud. Wilson was looking at him like he had just pulled the bung out of a leaky canoe.

"W-what did you say?"

"God, Wilson, I'm so sorry. I'm so freakin' sorry. It's happening again and I don't know how the hell to stop it."

"Stop _what? _House … what? Talk to me."

"I'm losing it, Wilson. I've been hallucinating for weeks. It started at Mom's, and I don't know how to make it go away."

"Hallucinating what? Are you hallucinating now?"

"Yes."

"Hallucinating what?"

"I've been seeing Amber. She's been popping in and out since we had lunch at the Country Cupboard in Lexington.I never meant for you to know. I didn't want to make it more difficult for you than it already is. I'm so sorry. The news about Kutner got it all going again … and she's over at the piano right now. Ahh … Wilson …"

Wilson paused and looked across at House's baby grand. No one was there, and no music was playing. "House, it's all right. She's not really there."

"Yes. She is. In my screwed-up mind, she is …"

Quickly, House was up; on his feet and grabbing his cane. He raced from the living room and hurried down the hallway to the bath. The door closed and Wilson could hear the sounds of retching. What little food his friend had consumed did not stay down long. Wilson got up and walked down there also. He stood by the bathroom door, quietly waiting.

Finally the door opened again and a pale, washed-out House emerged. He was hobbling, the toes of his right foot barely touching the floor. The cane was nearly useless. Wilson half led, half carried him to his bed; helped him into it and helped him lie down.

House was still whispering, "… sorry, Wilson … so sorry …"

"Shhhh …"

Wilson left him for a few minutes and went back to the living room to turn off the TV, wrap up what was left of the Chinese food and put it in the refrigerator. He turned off the lights and hurried back to the bedroom.

… and he did what had worked before.

Wilson climbed into the bed and spooned himself against House's back. With his right hand he reached down gently until he found House's right thigh. And he cupped it. And rubbed. And pressed at the knotted flesh.

House turned his head a little so Wilson could hear him.

"I'm losing it, Wilson. I'm losing myself, and if I don't do something soon, I'm going to lose you too. And I don't want that. I couldn't stand it."

"Shhh … House. You're not going to lose me. Life without you is unbearably dull. I found that out last year when we tried to hate each other."

"I brought this on myself, Wilson. I wouldn't listen and my pain has turned me into someone I can't stand. I can't stand the pain, and now I can't stand the drugs. I have to go to rehab and do it right this time. Will you help me, Wilson? You told me once that you know a man in Philly who can get me into a good drug rehabilitation center. If I don't go now, I'm gonna die. I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die, House."

"How the hell do you know?"

"Because I made a promise to your mom that I'd look out for you, and you don't want me to break a promise to your mom, do you?"

"Oh God no! If you did that, we'd both be dead."

Against his spinal column, House could feel the pressure of Wilson's stomach as he tried valiantly to suppress a burst of gallows laughter. "See? All the more reason I should keep

you alive. Or maybe I'll just keep you. Period."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Wilson lifted his head and peered over House's shoulder just as House lifted his own head and turned to look back at Wilson. They came very close to butting noses. "If you don't know what it means, then you're not the genius I thought you were."

"Okay. Just confirming a theory I had. We have to go to Kutner's funeral."

"Yeah. I know. Will you be up to it?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry I spilled the beans about Amber."

"It wasn't your fault. When you get out of rehab, she'll go to her final reward forever. But I'll be able to keep something even better."

"Yeah, I know. I grow on you, don't I?"

"Like mold, House. You warm enough?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. G'night, House."

"G'nite Wils-s …"

"I love you, you possum pancake …"

But the other man was already snoring.

-End-

A/N:

This story has been a pain-in-the-you-know-what from beginning to end. Continuity has been a beast, and I'm still not sure I got it right. I took liberties with the ending, so please don't complain that House didn't go to Mayfield at the time I said he did. (I KNOW!)

I also took great liberties with House and Blythe's backstories. And even greater liberties with the friendship-relationship between Gregory House and James Wilson. I admit I did have a good time with John House's military training foolishness, and the chapter with him flying the F-14. Also, the story of how and where and when and with whom Blythe got pregnant with the son that we all adore so much.

I am sad HOUSE is over. It's like a member of my family has died. These stories are our way of keeping him (and Wilson of course) alive.

To those of you who stuck with me to the bitter end should all get medals for "beyond the call of duty".

I sincerely appreciate the reviews and the PMs … great fun.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I may see you all again.

Or I may not.

Sincerely,

Bets;)

April, 2013

00000000000000000000

9


End file.
